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A Maid of the Frontier 


BY 


/ 


Henry Spofford Canfield. 



Chicago and New York: 
RAND, McNALLY & COMPANY, 


PUBLISHERS. 




Copyright, 189b, by Rand, McNally & Co. 



Snc; COPY, 

1Q98. 


TWO COPIES RECEIVED. 









TO MY MOTHER. 


HENRY SPOFFORD CANFIELD 


A MAID OF THE FRONTIER. 


CHAPTER I. 

At the Halcott Ranch. 

The horses’ heads were down between 
their knees. The dried sweat hung on 
them in white flakes. Their backs were 
humped, legs wide apart and gait sham- 
bling and aimless. The enormous load of 
Texas saddle, gun, blanket, camp utensils, 
waterproof, rider and jingling spur crushed 
them into mere semblances of equinity. 
There was no road and the prairie was 
brown in the blistering sun. The straight 
rays launched down and the men felt the 
successive sickening plunges of heat. The 
air was breathless and shimmering, and re- 
fracted clouds wavered from the cracked 
earth. The hills around rose bare and 
rock-clad, their scarred sides giving token 
of the spring freshet, and down them trick- 
led rivulets of dust. The sky was intense- 


6 


A MAID OF THE FRONTIER. 


ly blue, and, slow-wheeling a thousand feet 
in the furnace air, a brace of yellow- 
trimmed vultures sailed round and round, 
with motionless wings. Miles away in the 
glare a line of sparse trees moved fantas- 
tically up and down with the jog of the 
horses. The men breasted the nearest 
white hill and rose painfully to its summit, 
mentally calculated the distance interven- 
ing and cast a despairing glance at the 
blinding prairie. 

“That's Halcott’s," said the elder, 
squirming uneasily in the saddle, “but we'll 
shore never git there. This here plug is 
the hardest-ridin' thing I ever backed — 
straight up-en-down, up-en-down — travil 
all day in the shade of one tree." 

“Same here," responded his companion. 
“The only thing I like about it is, the 
derned rangers will have to make the same 
ride. Been ridin' an' sweatin' an' pantin' 
for near two days now, jus' to let that 
young feller know the soldiers need him. 
An' to help ol' Dan Halcott, too. Many's 
the time Dan has holped me." 


A MAID OF THE FRONTIER. 7 

‘What did Hightower kill that man fur? 
Some says he were an officer from the ol’ 
states, huntin’ Charlie fur a row back there. 
I b’leve that myself. Leastways, I think I 
b’leve it.” 

“Thing uz this way,” responded Canty. 
He was a younger man and spoke with 
more snap and assertiveness than his com- 
panion. “Thing uz this way. This here 
fool of a man come ridin’ into Edwards- 
ville on a big shiny Amerikin horse. He 
uz settin’ in a big shiny new saddle an’ he 
jingled a pair o’ the bigges’ shinies’ spurs 
ever I see. He uz wearin’ a shiny nickel- 
plated forty-five and a shiny gol’ pin in a 
white shirt, I tell you, an’ a red cravat. An’ 
in July, too. Lord!” The speaker spat 
straight between his horse’s ears and his 
hearer spat in unison. 

“He put up at Red’s hotel and started to 
run th’ house. He drunk whiskey befo’ 
dinner an’ whiskey after dinner an’ whiskey 
at bed-time. He chinned the barkeep mos’ 
to death an’ run the servant girls all over 
the place. William did tell me as how that 


8 


A MAID OF THE FRONTIER. 


feller chinned him mos’ to death. Then he 
went out in town an’ hunted up the Sheriff. 

“ 'Kin you tell me/ he ’lowed, 'ef a man 
named Hightower stops aroun’ here? A 
right smart of a young man, with good 
clothes and great fur runnin’ aroun’/ says 
he. 

" 'Charlie Hightower,’ says Mason, 'has 
been aroun’ here fur the bes’ part o’ a year. 
He’s a lawyer an’ he makes a mos’ pow’ful 
speech. He drinks with th’ Judge, an’ 
plays keerds with th’ jurymen an’ len’s 
money to anybody as wants. An’ he’s 
mighty well liked out here, an’ what might 
be yo’ business?’ says Mason. 

" 'I’m wantin’ him,’ says Shiny, ' ’cause 
he’s a murd’rer an’ embezzler an’ hoss- 
thief.’ 

"Or Tom Mason laughed when th’ man 
’lowed Charlie was a murd’rer an’ took 
other folks’ money, but w’en this here red 
cravat devil says, 'an’ a hoss-thief,’ he got 
mighty white in the face an’ pulled at his 
beard an’ spit out his terbacker an’ says: 

" 'Hightower is off ’tendin’ court, m’ 


A MAID OF THE FRONTIER. 


9 


fre’n, but w’en he comes back you kin talk 
to him. In the meantime, m’ fre’n, you 
jus’ drop whiskey an’ rustle aroun’ fur some 
sand. You take my word, you’ll need two 
or three bucketfuls of it.’ 

^'Shiny went off and laid aroun’ fur two 
or three days drinkin’ mo’ whiskey an’ jus’ 
chinnin’ th’ barkeep plum to death. By-’n- 
by Hightower rode into town with his 
pockets full o’ money. Befo’ he got off’n 
his boss forty people tol’ him of a off’cer 
as said he uz a hoss-thief an’ uz goin’ to 
take him back to Georgy. Charlie laughed 
an’ ’lowed none of ’em hadn’t los’ no boss 
by him sence he come to Edwardsville; an’ 
then he went in his office an’ shut the door. 
Soon he come out agin, dressed in th’ bes’ 
clothes Edwardsville ever see; an’ a lump 
under his coat-tail I s’picioned. He uz 
smilin’ an’ asked all the boys to take some- 
thin’, ’cause he uz jus’ back from a money- 
country. 

^Don’t go to Red’s,’ says one. That 
big-spurred Sheriff’s there, Charlie, an’ 
there’ll be trouble.’ 


lO 


A MAID OF THE FRONTIER. 


“ Tm not dodgin’ anybody/ said Char- 
lie. ^Ef any dodgin’s to be done in these 
parts, m’ fre’n, th’ thief-catcher, ’ll do it/ 
An’ then they all went in. 

"'Shiny uz there, leanin’ over th’ counter, 
more’n half drunk an’ lookin’ vishus. He 
seen a nice dressed man come in an’ he 
know’d right away how th’ cat jumped. 
They ranged up to th’ bar, none of ’em 
feelin’ very thirsty, but all lookin’ mighty 
interested. Shiny straightened up an’ says : 

“ "You’re Charles Hightower, wanted at 
Freeport, Georgy, fur murder an’ theft. 
Ho’l up yo’ ban’s.’ 

""He uz an awful fool. He made his talk, 
one han’ on th’ counter an’ never draw’d. 
But w’en he says, "hoi’ up yo’ ban’s,’ he 
reached back under his coat an’ — Shiny 
never drunk whiskey no mo’. A drift o’ 
smoke went acrost my eyes, one o’ the 
glasses on th’ counter dropped to th’ flo’, 
an’ Shiny, one han’ on th’ m’hog’ny an’ th’ 
other fumblin’ in th’ air, sunk on his knees, 
his head bangin’ on his breast. 

"" "I’ve been a little wild, gentlemen/ 


A MAID OF THE FRONTIER. 


II 


Charlie said, ^but I never murdered any- 
body, nor stole anybody’s beast. Stan’ 
back between me an’ th’ do’, there.’ 

‘ We stepped aside an’ he crost his hoss 
an’ went clatterin’ out o’ town. You an’ 
me knows where he went to an’ so does the 
rangers. I don’t know Shiny’s right name 
— Charlie ’d tell us, I s’pose; but I ain’t no 
ways cur’ous ’bout other folks’ bus’ness. 
It’s my b’lief Shiny wern’t no off’cer an’ 
meant to git th’ drop on Charlie an’ kill 
him fur some ol’ money grudge; but, Lord, 
he uz drunker’n he looked.” 

“Yonder’s the ranch,” said the other, 
“an’ there’s ol’ Dan on th’ gallery with his 
everlastin’ rifle, an’ Hightower an’ th’ gal 
under th’ trees, an’ th’ ol’ woman rustlin’ 
aroun’ fur supper. That hits me.” 

Built on a gentle rise that led up from 
the slow-moving creek, the ranch faced 
due east. It was a single-storied white 
building of sun-dried mud and covered out- 
side with a thick coating of lime. There 
were four large rooms leading from one to 
the other by apertures cut in the walls and 


12 


A MAID OF THE FRONTIER. 


dosed by hides in lieu of doors. The floor 
was the original pale soil on which the 
house was built, and very hard and uneven 
it was. There were thick clumsy windows, 
two in front, closed by solid wooden shut- 
ters and barred like a jail’s. The door was 
of heaviest hickory, possibly three inches 
thick, a slab hewed from a giant tree, and 
when closed was locked, bolted and barred 
heavily at top, across the middle and at 
bottom. The place was ugly, of great appar- 
ent strength, but with a rude picturesque- 
ness of its own. The roof was of a broad- 
leaved water weed, laid on in layers and 
bound, many inches in thickness, perfectly 
impervious to the seldom rain and as com- 
bustible as tinder. It had been of a light 
tow color, but was now blackened by years 
of exposure. To the right, left and rear 
rolled the brown prairie, dotted by frequent 
thickets of mesquite, chaparral and cactus. 
The timid deer came from this under- 
growth at night and drank of the water 
within pistol shot. It was thirty-five miles 
to the nearest post-office, and Dan Hal- 


A MAID OF THE FRONTIER. 


13 


cott, a long, grizzled, tired, quiet man, said 
he felt crowded but was too old to move. 
He had ‘‘left Mizzoory nigh thirty year 
ago,” and had seen the country fill up “till 
there wasn’t room to turn ’round and spit 
without hurtin’ somebody’s feelin’s.” He 
owned the headright of i6o_ acres on which 
his house was built, and had right of range 
over countless miles which belonged to no- 
body, or to the state — practically the same 
thing. He had fed on flour bread, beef and 
black coffee twenty-one times a week for 
twenty-five years and asked nothing bet- 
ter. His amusements were an occasional 
prolonged drunk in Edwardsville, sixty 
miles away. He could make shift to write 
his name; according to his talk believed 
strenuously in God as a condemningpower, 
and could ride, shoot and rope steers with 
the wildest Mexican that ever swam the 
Rio Grande, with a buzzing swarm of coun- 
trymen’s bullets about him and a delega- 
tion of Americans waiting to lynch him on 
this side. 

His wife — like himself, like the earth. 


2 


14 A MAID OF THE FRONTIER. 

like the grass, like the trees — was brown. 
She was an angular woman, with thin hair 
carried back loosely to a knot, large ankles 
and a shambling timorous gait. There 
were lines of patient suffering about her 
mouth and her eyes were dull and filmed 
with toil of many days. She moved brisk- 
ly about the room, stopping now and then 
to take from her mouth a chewed twig and 
dip it in a pot of snuff placed on a con- 
venient shelf. The fire was hot, the room 
close, and as she hacked at the piece of iron 
dried beef she groaned and found small sat- 
isfaction in snatches of out-of-date hymns 
sung in a nasal undertone. 

‘"Dad,” came a mellow voice from the 
front, “two men cornin’. Can’t make out 
who they air. But they’re ridin’ mighty 
keerless.” 

Halcott reached for his Winchester and 
stepped out on the ground which, covered 
by a thatched shed, did duty for a portico. 

“Oh, I know them fellers,” he said, after 
a moment’s pause. “Wonder what they’re 
doin’ up here. They lives down about Ed- 


A MAID OF THE FRONTIER. 15 

wardsville. Fve got occasion to know 
that Lem Canty awful well. Kin hoi’ more 
whiskey as a pork barrel. Light an’ come 
in,” he sung out, genially. “Jus" take off 
th’ saddles an’ come along in. Supper’s 
’bout ready, an’ so’re we.” 

As the two men advanced from the fence, 
each bearing his saddle on his arm, a tall 
young man with quiet blue eyes and a pro- 
fusion of black curly hair, met them half 
way. He was broad-shouldered and clean 
limbed and moved with the easy grace of 
youth and unconscious strength. 

'‘Glad to see you, boys,” he said, holding 
out his hand with a frank smile. “What’s 
brought you two here? Thought you were 
putting in your best work destroying Red’s 
sanitary stores. And how’s the old wom- 
an, Pete, and the little baby I gave the 
watch-charm to? Have either of you had 
the good luck to know Miss Halcott? This 
is she.” 

“I know the gal,” said Pete simply, as 
he shook her hand, while Canty dropped 


l6 A MAID OF THE FRONTIER. 

his saddle and rubbed his feet uneasily to- 
gether. 

^'Howd’ye,” she said softly. “Why don’t 
you shake hands, too?” 

“Thankye, Miss,” said Lem, “I’m glad 
to do it.” 

She was an example of the latter-day 
physical evolution of the West. Born of 
a tired and common mother, with no blood 
of especial value in her, and no desire for 
any; reared on the windy prairie, where 
every breath swept undefiled for hundreds 
of miles over the waving grass; cradled 
in apparent poverty, but real wealth; fed 
with coarse food; inured to rough exer- 
cise; her growing muscles braced by her 
open life, she had bloomed into a splendid 
perfection of womanhood, graceful, brave 
and strong. She was a bold and tireless 
rider, a straight shot and learned hunts- 
woman. She would do you a long day’s 
work with unflagging gayety, and dance to 
a stand-still any five men within a hundred 
miles. Her eyes were gray, wonderfully 
deep and jet-black in half-lights, her skin 


A MAID OF THE FRONTIER. 17 

tanned but clear, chin firm, teeth even, 
strong and white, and her hair had in it a 
slight tinge of red. When she spoke to 
her parents she used their language, a queer 
mixture of backwoods elisions and Mexi- 
can patois; when she whispered to High- 
tower her talk was better English than you 
speak and I write. She had, by the lights 
of her father, the hide-bound, too much 
learning for a cowman’s daughter, having 
at the earnest solicitation of the circuit- 
rider — who came twice a year, and when 
he did, got away as soon as possible — been 
sent for four sessions to the Edwardsville 
public school, thence to a neighboring high 
school for two years, and thence to one 
“summer normal,” an occasional institu- 
tion intended for the development of teach- 
ers, which she had attended with the avow- 
ed purpose of earning her own living, an 
intention speedily abandoned. And thence 
home, with so much “education” that her 
mother regarded her with wonder not un- 
mixed with fear. She had a voice like a 
bell, played the twelve-stringed Mexican 
2 


l8 A MAID OF THE FRONTIER. 

guitar with taste and sang songs of love 
and foray until the young attorney’s heart 
went out to her. 

The rawhide-bottomed chairs slightly 
marked the dirt-floor as they were drawn 
round the plain pine table. Old Halcott, 
inserting an iron fork into a dish of fried 
beef, lifted the greasy morsel, deposited it 
on a tin plate and shoved it along to any 
one who desired it. The girl refused; the 
men were helped liberally. 

*‘Seems to me,” said the host, “that times 
gits harder every year. Seems that grass is 
skeercer and drier, the sun hotter and the 
steers more cusseder by ten times than they 
was five years ago. W’y, I’ve saw the time 
when a man could ride from here to forty- 
mile the other side of Edwardsville and 
never see a human. An’ now they tell me 
a Yankee has moved in on Lemon creek, 
not more’n ten mile from this here ranch, 
an’ he’s got a bunch o’ scabby sheep an’ 
proposes to stay there. All I say,” he con- 
tinued, making a vicious cut at a hunk of 
heavy bread, “is that them fellers don’t live 


A MAID OF THE FRONTIER. 19 

long in this country. They dies sudden, 
an’ away from camp. What, Charlie, was 
you an’ Lem confabbin’ about, ef I ain’t 
interferin’?” 

“Well,” said Hightower, tilting his chair 
and looking straight at the girl, “you know 
all about the row at Edwardsville. I am 
informed by my friends here that the rang- 
ers are after me. In other words, they may 
be looked for along here by to-morrow 
evening at latest. I don’t intend to stir. I 
like your ranch, Mr. Halcott; I like the 
people, and I like to please myself. Here 
we are, and here we stay.” 

“What air you goin’ to do, then?” in- 
quired the ranchman. 

“Why,” responded the young lawyer, “I 
shot the man to save my own life. I knew 
him years ago in Georgia, and I know, too, 
that he hadn’t been back there in three 
years. Quite the contrary. He has been 
within one hundred miles of Edwardsville 
all of the time. He is, or rather was, a mem- 
ber of Dick Harriott’s gang, and I guess 
you know what they are. He had heard 


20 


A MAID OF THE FRONTIER. 


that I intended to run for District Attor- 
ney, and his game was to arrest me under a 
pseudo warrant, take me out of town and 
— meet some of his companions. He owed 
me a grudge back in the old states. He 
was a bad character there, but worse here. 
So the matter stands. I have nothing to 
flee from. If necessary, I will go back with 
the rangers. I left Edwardsville because I 
did not know at what time some of Harri- 
ott’s men might ride in, and I think too 
much of myself not to want a fair show.” 

He paused and meditatively rolled a cig- 
arette. 

^‘How do you know, Mr, Hightower,” 
whispered the girl, paling slightly, “that 
Harriott’s men won’t follow you here?” 

“I don’t think they haVe me located; but 
if . they have, there will be a warm time. Un- 
less,” he added hurriedly, “the oflicers reach 
us first. Then should Mr. Harriott drop 
in, we’ll make things lively for him. The 
troops have been looking for his camp, and 
Robinson — the rangers’ captain. Miss Anne 
— would be glad to meet him. I am more 


A MAID OF THE FRONTIER. 


21 


obliged than I can say to you, Canty, and 
you, Hord, for the long ride you have taken, 
but it wasn’t necessary.” 

*'How many men, Lem Canty,” growled 
Halcott, ‘‘do you calk’late that Harriott 
has got now? They used to be a consid’bul 
lot of ’em five years ago, an’ many’s the 
cow they’ve skinned fur me; but some’s 
been killed, an’ some hung, an’ some run 
out o’ the country.” 

“I’ll answer,” said Hightower. “Harriott 
is a man who believes in his business, and 
always attends to it. A good many of his 
men have disappeared at one time and an- 
other, but he has recruited. He has now, 
I should say, in good murdering and thiev- 
ing trim, some eighteen or twenty. He’ll 
bring most of them along, should he come. 
He’s watching the rangers, knows they are 
after me, and will probably try to beat them 
here. So taking the chances by and large, 
Mr. Halcott, I think you can count on a 
scrimmage in the next two days.” 

The speaker pushed back his chair and 
strode out of the door, whither the party 


22 


A MAID OF THE FRONTIER. 


followed him. The Texan atmosphere was 
no bar to transmission of the million lights 
that flickered down from a star-strewn sky. 
There was no moon and the heavens, azure 
in the noon-time, were a deep and shining 
black. The breeze pattered fitfully in the 
leaves of the tall and somber cottonwoods. 
There were a thousand insect voices in the 
air, and the little stream sang softly. Over 
all was a sense of indescribable freshness, 
a vastness, a freedom from constriction, a 
solitude that had in it a touch of languor 
too. The ranchman, with a long-drawn 
sigh, sank into one of his torturing chairs, 
and, producing a wooden pipe, filled it with 
tobacco, which he cut from a plug and 
rolled between his horny palms; then call- 
ing tiredly for a coal, placed it on the damp 
mixture and sucked arduously. Canty and 
Hord, seated upon their saddles, shuck-en- 
cased cigarettes between their brown fin- 
gers, talked sleepily of the day’s ride and 
the chances of the morrow. Hightower 
and the girl stood on the bank of the creek 
shrouded in shadow. 


A MAID OF THE FRONTIER. 23 

“My dear,” said Anne, her firm hand rest- 
ing on her lover’s shoulder, “Harriott is a 
very bad man, isn’t he? Don’t you feel un- 
easy over his coming?” 

“Can’t say that I do,” he replied, slowly. 
“I snatch the day when I am with you, 
sweetheart, and am not troubled by 
thoughts of the ‘Terror of the Rio Bravo,’ 
as I believe he styled himself in some dodg- 
ers he once had struck at the Edwardsville 
printing office, and has since pasted on 
every road in the county. Sufficient for the 
day is the evil thereof.” 

“I’m thinking that,” she answered. 
“You’re not very good, you know, and 
you’re enough for me.” 

“Not utterly depraved, though?” 

“I don’t think so. Do you know how 
long it has been since I first met you? At 
the dance in the Edwardsville court-house, 
when the fiddler got drunk and the tallow 
candles dripped on my hair and my new 
dress. More than a year now. And you 
are not District Attorney yet. I branded 


24 A MAID OF THE FRONTIER. 

twelve hundred calves this spring. You 
will never catch up.” 

“Beef-owning maiden,” he replied, as he 
stretched along the grass, his feet within six 
inches of the water, “I have more money 
than I know what to do with ; but not more 
than your respected father considers neces- 
sary for his daughter’s mate. With him 
removed, we would marry to-morrow and 
I would own the ranch.” 

“Would we? I think too much of him 
to spare him, and you will never own the 
ranch while I live. You’ll need him, too, 
if Harriott comes with his trumpets and his 
drums. I saw him once. What a hand- 
some man he is!” 

“Very,” said Hightower, puffing vigor- 
ously at his cigarette, “as sweet a character 
I should say as ever stole a neighbor’s horse 
and murdered him after for claiming his 
own. But it’s ill talking of Dick Harriott. 
I’ll get your guitar and you’ll sing me the 
song I made you.” 

He returned in an instant, and, again 
prone on the grass, was ready to listen. 


A MAID OF THE FRONTIER. 25 

The girl sat with her profile against the 
sky, and he could mark the rich sweep of 
her hair and the rise and fall of her white 
throat and bosom. 

'Tt isn’t much of a song,” ventured Anne. 
‘Tt’s the singing puts life into it.” 

Stars throb within the tender sky. 

The mantle of the night 
Is flung between my love and me 
And hides her from my sight. 
Beneath her window lattice I 
Stand waiting prayerfully. 

Ah, dear! smile on my loneliness. 

Come down to me! 

Fair, pallid stars, whose roving beams 
Fill all the somber night 
With glintings of soft mystery 
And fairy shades and light. 

Your gleaming is in rivalry 
Of eyes of gramarye. 

But fainter far, of weaker spell! 

Come down to me! 

With your white arms about my throat 
And your dear cheek on mine. 

With whispers of a tender note 
And beakers of Love’s wine. 


26 


A MAID OF THE FRONTIER. 


What care I though my life be chained, 
My soul no longer free? 

Embodiment of Passion’s power, 

Come down to me! 

Sweetheart, your gray eyes are my stars ! 
Your anger is my night! 

Give to me something of thy love. 

My life and light! 

The wind of the night was odorous. 
Hightower had stolen his hand on hers, 
and her slight, warm fingers lay in his with- 
out a quiver. Their paths were set before 
them. He saw the way lying plain in the 
starlight. They were in a land of infinite 
possibilities, its future strength shadowed 
in the richness of its fields and its splendid 
loneliness. They would be happy. Years 
from now, years filled to the brim with con- 
tent, each following fast in the footsteps of 
the other, they would sink into the kindly 
bosom of the land which had nourished 
them, leaving the void which follows the 
departure of the loved. Across the eastern 
sky, with a strident hiss and humming that 
could be felt more than heard, a meteor 


A MAID OF THE FRONTIER. 27 

rushed, leaving" a trail of incandescence and 
paling the stars it passed over. 

‘It looks like blood,’’ Anne said, with a 
shudder. ‘The Dipper is high in the sky, 
and the locust voices are hushed. Stand 
back while I look at you. What a tall, 
pretty fellow you are! Good-night!” 

CHAPTER II. 

Robinson of the Rangers. 

At noon, when the summer sun was high; 
when Halcott had returned to the ranch on 
his thirteen-hand pony, with not a drop of 
moisture on his leathery skin, tossed the 
saddle under the trees and turned loose the 
horse, to be seen again, probably, in six 
months, inveighing bitterly the while 
against the heat and scarcity of water; 
when Anne and Hightower had talked their 
plans over for the tenth time, and started 
cheerfully on the eleventh; when Hord and 
Canty had rolled innumerable cigarettes, 
told innumerable tales of round-ups and In- 
dian forays and enjoyed to the full the 


28 A MAID OF THE FRONTIER. 

sweets of doing nothing; when tired Mrs. 
Halcott had made ready to announce that 
dinner was “done” and glanced wistfully 
at the idle men under the trees, on the far 
divide which cut the horizon to the east of 
the ranch, a puff of dust was seen, and in 
an instant the figures of men on horses rose 
against the sky and melted into the de- 
scending slope. 

“Rangers or rustlers?” came from High- 
tower, working a stockman’s small field- 
glass. “Rangers say I. They ride straight, 
and there is one man a good bit in front.” 

“Robinson!” said old man Halcott. 
“He’s allers in front on that big bay o’ his’n, 
an’ the boys is bouncin’ up-en-down in the 
saddles an’ ridin’ after him. He’s a good 
off’cer, Robinson is; but young and too 
fond of trouble. But, Lord, I ain’t got 
nothin’ agin him. ’Tain’t longer ago than 
six month that he an’ his fellers crost right 
into Mexico an’ got back a hundred head 
o’ steers th’ greasers tuk from me. This 
ranch is his long’s he wants it, an’ every- 
thing on it ’cept my saddle an’ my wife.” 


A MAID OF THE FRONTIER. 29 

‘‘How ’bout me, Dad?” inquired Anne, 
who stood near watching from under 
arched hands the growing cloud of dust. 

“Oh, you,” said the aged cow-puncher, 
with a hoarse laugh, “you, I take it, are be- 
spoke; though you ain’t said nothin’ to me 
an’ your mammy ’bout it,” and he glanced 
calmly and inquiringly at Hightower. 

“Right you are,” said the latter, rising 
and stretching lazily. “Miss Anne and I 
have agreed to practice law together when 
I get my office. And I’ll get it certain this 
fall.” He pronounced “office” with the lin- 
gering intonation of the southern lawyer, 
who is always a politician. 

“They’ll be here in a half-hour,” said 
Canty, lounging up the speakers. “It’s a 
long ways off, but they’re jus’ eatin’ up th’ 
groun’. I sh’d say they seen or know some- 
thin’. When them fellers dropped over the 
hill like they did, I know’d they uz cornin’ 
ban’s down.” 

“When you see th’ boys,” chimed in 
Hord, “ridin’ close in a bunch like that, 
with Robinson twenty feet in th’ lead, some- 


3 


30 , A MAID OF THE FRONTIER. 

body’s got to hustle or tackle a hard time. 
I been out with ’em merse’f. Covered 
eighty-five mile between Piedras Pintas an’ 
th’ Rio Grande in fourteen hours, jus’ a year 
ago this fall. An’ we never got th’ man we 
uz ridin’ fur, neither.” 

''Was a lively traveler, was he?” asked 
Anne, with some interest. 

"He had one hour’s start, an’ we follered 
him all night. When we swung down the 
bank o’ th’ river th’ sun uz risin’ an’ the 
tracks on th’ other side uz wet where he 
rid out o’ th’ water. But we never caught 
him. You git a thief in Mexico an’ you’ve 
got him where he lives. Look mighty 
keerful, or he’ll git you. Ask Robinson.” 

The approaching party could now be 
plainly seen. They were coming at a swing- 
ing gait, rising and falling in the gallop 
with the careless ease of the southwestern 
rough rider. The horses were flecked with 
foam, and as they drew near, the men’s 
faces were set and pale with long exertion. 
They clattered up the slope and drew rein 
simultaneously in front of the house. 


A MAID OF THE FRONTIER. 


31 


''Sixty miles this morning/' said their 
leader, as he sprang from his shivering 
steed and doffed his wide hat to Anne Hal- 
cott. "Is' Charles Hightower here?” 

"I am, Captain,” said the wanted, who 
had disappeared and now made his en- 
trance. "What can I do for you?” 

"I want you for shooting Ruggles in 
Edwardsville,” as he shook his prisoner’s 
hand. "You never did a better thing, but 
law is law, and I’m its humble instrument. 
It seems to me,” he added with a smile, 
"that I scent dinner.” 

"So you do,” quavered Mrs. Halcott 
from the interior, "jus’ come right in, 
Cap’n, you an’ your boys. I ain’t forgot 
one of em’s ridin’ twenty mile once to bring 
me news my ol’ man uz safe that row at 
Bedler’s camp. Lordy, Anne, fly ’roun’ an’ 
git th’ Cap’n a cheer.” 

The man deserves description. In this 
day of pointed-shoe civilization, his type is 
only in the very far west. Perhaps he was 
common in the hardy times of fifty years 
ago. Surely there must have been an an- 


32 A MAID OF THE FRONTIER. 

cestry of wonderful strength and resolute- 
ness and daring that gave Thomas Robin- 
son his powerful frame and steadfast, keen 
and patient eyes. Five feet ten inches he 
stood, long-armed and small-footed, not an 
ounce of superfluous flesh on him, small 
dark eyes, but wide apart; high cheek- 
bones and thin close lips, chin square and 
skin burned to Indian blackness by the 
fierceness of many suns. A handsome face, 
too, but somewhat hard. Men said that 
ten years ago he had been the gayest, most 
reckless of the many adventurers who sifted 
the life of the west in a sieve which was to 
hold nuggets of gold. Whence he came 
nobody knew, and not many cared to in- 
quire. He was not a man to question idly. 
But he was honest, all men agreed on that, 
and a fearless, hard-working, singularly ef- 
ficient officer. He knew the western crim- 
inal well, his daring, his cunning and his 
weakness. From Paso del Norte to the 
waters of the Gulf he was known and feared. 
Five years of ranger life had given the hard 
look to his face. Scenes of murder and 


A MAID OF THE FRONTIER. 33 

rapine and orgy and blood-encarnadined 
awakening; of long pursuit and swift 
vengeance; of love and crime; of light and 
shadow manifold, his calm eyes had looked 
upon. They said of him that once, in the 
gray of the early morning when the hunted 
desperado turned at bay in the chaparral 
and the blue smoke of the Winchester 
drifted lightly, he had taken the dead man’s 
little child on the saddle before him and rid- 
den many miles in a blistering sun to find it 
shelter. He was unmarried, and his whole 
life was given to taming the fierce element 
which none knew as he, and which he had 
come— as is the manner of men long inured 
to pursuit of criminals — to half-way respect 
and admire. There were braves among 
them, and he loved courage in any form; 
there were handsome women among them, 
as he had once found to his cost. 

Halcott approached and held out his 
seamed and knotted hand. ^‘Cap’n,” he 
said simply, “th’ ranch is yours. I ain’t 
forgot them steers. Mar has got some 
chickens cooked — an’ — an’ less set down.” 

3 


34 


A MAID OF THE FRONTIER. 


The men trooped in bashfully and 
scraped their chairs over the hard ground. 
Anne smiled cheerfully at the Captain, and 
filled Hightower’s plate in a motherly way. 
Mrs. Halcott had discarded her snuff-twig 
and bustled about eager to serve her guests. 
The ranchman had his mouth full, and was 
contented in the exercise of feeding, which 
broke the monotony of his life thrice In a 
day. 

^*Do you know,” asked Hightower, 
glancing carelessly at Robinson, “anything 
of a party named Harriott?” 

“Just going to mention the matter,” was 
replied. “Think we will catch him to- 
night.” 

“As how?” 

“He’s after you. Didn’t you know it? 
I did when I left Edwardsville.” 

Hightower stared at the officer a mo- 
ment, then absently crumbled a bit of bread 
between his fingers. His face was grave, 
but there was no fear on it. 

“How did you know?” he inquired. 

“Last night,” said Robinson, speaking 


A MAID OF THE FRONTIER. 35 


very clearly and rapidly, “I heard that Har- 
riott’s gang was after you. Never mind 
how I got the information; it was perfect- 
ly reliable. The reason given me was Har- 
riott’s fear of your election in the coming 
contest for the District Attorneyship. I 
was told also that Harriott knew your pres- 
ent stopping place — pleasantly situated you 
are! — and sh — he, my informant, was cer- 
tain that the rustlers would make for you 
without delay. And, as I can judge from 
the late removal of Ruggles, how valuable 
your aid as an officer will be, I thought I 
would ride out and take you in charge. I 
am happy to state that Mr. Harriott has 
no idea of my whereabouts, and believes 
you at present practically unbefriended. 
Got a light?” 

“Thousand times obliged, old man,” 
laughed Hightower. “Though contrary to 
custom, I hope you’ll allow your prisoner 
to carry his weapons.” 

“Why, certainly!” replied the Captain. 
“I believe that Dick will bring his entire 
band; and we’ll certainly need everybody 


36 A MAID OF THE FRONTIER. 

disposed to help. His horses are in good 
fix, and he will ride hard. He always does, 
blank him! My apologies to the ladies for 
strong language, but when I get on the 
subject of Harriott I am apt to grow pro- 
fuse.’^ 

‘‘I know’d that, Dick,” broke in Halcott, 
“when he uz a brown little boy at his mam- 
my's elbow all day long. I seen him more’n 
a hunderd times down at ol’ Harriott's 
place afore the ol' man uz killed by th' vigi- 
lantys. He uz a merry little chap an' 
smoked an' chewed same as a man. He 
tuk to stealin' w'en he uz 1 8-year ol', an' 
he's been at it ever sence. Mexican Pedro, 
that worked for me two year ago, uz a quiet 
peace’bul chap, an' a good han’. Dick shot 
him at a fandango down to Thompson's fur 
less'n nothin' 't all. Pedro uz dancin' with 
Nita Valdez, what runned into Mexico with 
a man name Grigsby, an’ Dick walked up 
to him an' says, 'You're too free, greaser,' 
an' shot him dead. Th' gal reached fur 
Pedro’s knife, an’ Dick jumped on his horse 


A MAID OF THE FRONTIER. 37 

an’ loped away. Pedro uz a mighty good 
han’.” 

‘‘You could fill the day counting over 
Harriott’s doings,” said Robinson, rising 
and stepping out of the room. “He has 
given me more trouble than any ten men 
on the frontier. He has hiding places in 
Texas, most of which I know, and haunts 
in Mexico, most of which I do not know. 
He has outridden me often and outfought 
me once. But to-night,” and the speaker’s 
small black eyes glittered, “we will play for 
even. 

“It is no question,” he added, turning to 
Hightower, “of capture. It is a question 
of who is the best man.” His cigarette, bit- 
ten through, fell to the ground and he 
turned away. 

“Well,” said Halcott, picking up a raw- 
hide lariat, “Harriott can’t get here till after 
dark. Don’t b’leve he’s cornin’, anyhow. 
Gentlemen, will you ride with me?” 

Canty and Hord rose unwillingly, and 
the Captain and his men stretched them- 
selves for rest. 


38 A MAID OF THE FRONTIER. 

It was evening. The red-globed sun 
poised jauntily on his rim on the far line of 
western ridge, and stared at the somber 
waste of solitude. The trees made ten 
times their length on the brown grass, and 
one ambitious cottonwood, taller than its 
fellows, reached the rocky side of a hill 
three hundred yards away and wavered up 
and down, slowly climbing to the top. The 
leaves clicked gently together and the grass 
stood straight and stiff and dark in the fall- 
ing shades. In the eastern sky two green- 
ish stars hung winking, and away in the 
north a heavy black line of cloud rose grim- 
ly. There was a hush on everything. The 
ranch animals were still, and Halcott and 
his guests sat under the arbor placidly 
smoking. 

Anne’s hand had stolen into her lover’s 
and she nestled at his feet, smiling ner- 
vously and whispering from time to time. 
He was very grave. The impending strug- 
gle sobered him. As he gazed into the 
coming darkness, the girl’s soft fingers 
around his own and her cheek brushing his 


A MAID OF THE FRONTIER. 39 

knee, he saw himself on the wide prairie 
in the fangs of that human wolf. He was 
bound on a horse, led by a man in front, 
who bobbed carelessly in his saddle, and 
shut in on either side and behind by shad- 
owy forms with murder in their shining 
eyes. He heard the leader’s coarse laugh 
as the company passed swiftly over the 
crumbling soil, and saw the halt, the dis- 
mount, the circled forms, the all enveloping 
blackness. God! how lonely it was! The 
giant outlaw sprang from his saddle. 

“Kill him!” he said shortly. 

There was a falling back of the figures 
around him, a long sigh of the wind in the 
mesquite — 

Hark! What was that? The long howl 
of the prairie wolf rose on the air and hung 
tremulant. The sound swelled higher and 
more full and the waves of it beat the ear. 
It was answered by shrill barks that seemed 
to snap from a thousand throats. The 
coyotes were abroad. Then came a shrill 
scream as of one in mortal pain, the voice 
bursting with agony. Then again the sharp 


40 A MAID OF THE FRONTIER. 

cluck-cluck of some bird disturbed by the 
passage overhead of the slow-flapping owl. 

‘Tine songsters those coyotes, Miss 
Anne,” said Robinson. “I owe many a 
night’s amusement to them. You always 
see them dodging in and out the circle of 
light of the camp fire.” 

“Come with me,” whispered the girl, ris- 
ing and touching Hightower’s hair. “Just 
a little while.” 

He followed her into the darkness. 

“I am afraid,” she said, “I don’t know 
why. Possibly it is because I love you so. 
I have lived on the ranch in wild times, you 
know, when every moonlit night brought 
raiding Indians or Mexicans. I have drawn 
close to my mother when we heard them, 
but I have never felt afraid. But now I 
am changed. I want you to do something 
to please me. I fear the man riding toward 
us. Come with me and get my horse and 
yours, saddle them and place them near the 
house. That clump of mesquite on the knoll 
will do. Who knows what may happen, 
and I want you at least to go safe.” 


A MAID OF THE FRONTIER. 41 

“Do 3^ou know/^ said Hightower, stand- 
ing pale and looking at her, “that you are 
asking me to do a dishonorable thing, to 
take a base advantage of men who have 
come here to protect me?’’ 

“Oh, dear!” sighed Anne. “Then, Char- 
lie, will you get my horse — only mine. I 
don’t want to die.” 

“This is not like my girl,” said High- 
tower, “but you have a right to your brute 
if you want him. Come along.” 

In silence they stepped over the prairie, 
stumbling now and then, Anne’s dress 
catching in the small cactus that dotted the 
ground. The horse was found sleeping, 
and when his mistress’ hand was placed on 
his neck and her voice spoke to him, stag- 
gered to his feet and rubbed his head 
against her arm. He was a gray of unusual 
size for a ranch horse, with limbs splendidly 
muscled and the untiring gallop of the west. 
His speed when pushed was great, and hav- 
ing been near his owner all of his short life, 
and having received only benefits from her, 
loved her with a gallant and knightly heart. 


42 A MAID OF THE FRONTIER. 

He shook himself and followed, her hand 
resting lightly on his forelock. Her stout 
saddle \vas taken from the back eave of the 
roof and girthed on him. 

^'He might have been a better color,” 
said Hightower, as they left him standing 
tied to the mesquite, his coat showing 
amidst the dark twigs. 

“No matter,” said Anne. “Bob will stay 
until he is wanted. He is always true to 
me; and last year I rode him a mile against 
John Grayson’s horse at Edwardsville and 
made John ashamed.” 

“That you did!” her lover responded ap- 
provingly. “I saw you do it.” 

They found the people at the house wait- 
ing their advent to retire. The men were 
gathered under the shed, the Captain and 
Halcott with them. The lady of the house 
had gone inside, much frightened, and 
mumbling snuff voraciously. 

“I have been waiting for you, High- 
tower,” said Robinson, “and” — with a smile 
— “I didn’t like to hurry you. It is grow- 
ing late, however, and I think we had best 


A MAID OF THE FRONTIER. 


43 


get inside. All of the horses have been 
saddled and picketed two hundred yards to 
the left of the house, yours among them. I 
don’t think that we will have trouble in 
finishing the gang after Harriott is downed, 
but pursuit will be necessary. They won’t 
find the horses. I know you all to be good 
men. I have every confidence in those I 
found here, and I have brought my best 
men with me. Please remember, gentle- 
men, that as long as Harriott lives, it is a 
fight. Let’s adjourn.” 


CHAPTER HI- 
A Ride for a Life. 

It was twelve in the night, and Anne 
Halcott sat ready dressed in her room. 
She had donned a heavy, strong gown of 
dark color, a soft hat, and on one heel was 
a small shining spur. Her riding gloves 
lay in her lap, and her hands were tightly 
clasped, the fingers wound together. She 


44 A MAID OF THE FRONTIER. 

was in an agony of waiting. She had been 
gazing at a small slit of dark sky through 
a crevice in the roof. Only two or three 
stars were visible, and outside it was deadly 
still. The heavy breathing of the men in 
the next room sounded monotonously on 
her ear. There was no turning nor stirring 
among them. They slept the sleep of those 
who live in an atmosphere of danger, lightly 
but soundly. A choking snuffle from the 
old woman alone gave token of an uneasy 
consciousness of impending trouble. The 
starry minutes went slowly by. There was 
a breath now winding about the old build- 
ing, and toying with the grasses on the 
roof. It passed and all was still again. 

A tremulous sound stole on the girl’s ear. 
She bent eagerly forward. Again it came. 
Again. She was sure of it now! Louder 
and steadier and stronger — the roll of hoofs 
on the prairie. She drew a quick gasping 
breath and moved lightly into the other 
room. It was characteristic of her that, in 
the dark among the sleepers, she went 
straight to the form of the ranger leader. 


A MAID OF THE FRONTIER. 4^ 


“Captain!” she whispered softly and 
steadily, “Captain! they have come!” 

Robinson was on his knees in an instant, 
every sense at his command. He stooped 
his ear to the floor and a smile stole over his 
face in the dark. 

“Right you are. Miss Anne,” he said, 
“and a girl in a thousand. Get up, men, 
and feel for the tools.” 

The rangers, — Hightower, Hord, Canty 
and Halcott, twelve in all, — were awake 
and a moment later on their feet. Each 
man had his weapons beside him, and rose 
with them in his hands. 

“Not a word from any one,” said Robin- 
son. “Let Harriott do the talking.” 

The hoof-beats swelled into separate dis- 
tinctness, then with a crash the horses 
leaped the creek and the riders surged to 
the ranch. 

“Inside there!” said a strong rasping 
voice. “Git up, Dan Halcott, an’ show a 
light.” 

There was no answer from the house. 


4 


46 A MAID OF THE FRONTIER. 

Its inmates might have been absent or dead 
for all the sound it gave. 

‘^Git up, I tell you!” rapped the man in 
an irritated tone. ^‘1 know that young dog 
is there. It’s him I want; nobody’s goin’ 
to hurt you. Git up, I say, an’ open th’ 
door, or we’ll break it down. Show a 
light!” 

Robinson, who had been quietly inspect- 
ing the party through one of the rifle-slits 
in the wall, turned and whispered: ''Six- 
teen!” 

He stepped back and closed the orifice. 
The man outside, snarling a savage oath, 
advanced to the door and struck it a heavy 
blow with the butt of his pistol. 

"Git up! you infernal ol’ thief!” he 
yelled. "Git up an’ let us in, or we’ll feed 
you to the coyotes!” 

For answer there was a flash and sharp 
report inside, and Harriott sprang back 
with an exclamation. Hightower had fired 
through the door. 

"Wasting lead, my boy,” said Robinson. 


A MAID OF THE FRONTIER. 47 

''Get to the holes, men, and pick out Har- 
riott if you can.” 

The rangers stepped to their posts and 
the rifles cracked. One of Harriott’s men 
was shot from his horse, and another fell 
as the first struck the ground. 

"Back to the trees!” roared the outlaw. 
"It’s Robinson’s men!” 

His men rushed back into the shelter of 
the cottonwoods and returned the fire. 
There was a ceaseless flash and counter- 
flash. The bullets struck the adobe walls 
with vicious pats and the bark flew from the 
edges of the trees. The moon climbed over 
the eastern ledge of hills and shone with a 
sickly gleam. Each party, warmed to the 
fighting pitch, hailed the advent of more 
light. The smoke of the powder drifting 
back into the room had grown suffocating. 
It swirled along the walls and hung heavily 
near the floor. Anne, in her chamber, 
through her own loop-hole, was pluckily 
watching the fight. Her mother lay in a 
moaning heap on the floor. Old Halcott, 
gaunt and unmoved, stuck to his post or 


48 A MAID OF THE FRONTIER. 

turned to spit energetically and rummage 
for more cartridges. Hightower, his face 
flushed and blue eyes dancing, was shooting 
at every knot and excrescence which he 
fancied sheltered his enemy. Robinson had 
selected another point as the abiding place 
of the outlaw, and was taking few but care- 
ful shots at the edge of a coat-sleeve or 
rim of a sombrero. His face was very set 
and pale and his eyes half-closed and watch- 
ful. 

“The devils shoot well,” he muttered, as 
a bullet entered within an inch of the muz- 
zle of his Winchester and struck the oppo- 
site wall. 

One more of the rustlers had leaned back 
from his shelter and fallen with a splash 
into the creek. One of the rangers was 
down, shot through the face and mute as an 
Indian. The fight had lasted possibly half 
an hour in silence on each side, when there 
came a slackening from the trees, only an 
occasional report warning the inmates of 
the house to be careful. 


A MAID OF THE FRONTIER. 49 

“D — n it!” groaned Robinson, ‘‘they’re 
going to give in and run.” 

Then they heard the rapid gallop of a 
horse behind the house. It drew nearer 
and one of Harriott’s men, with a hoarse 
shout, dashed past, sparks and shreds of 
burning grass clinging to him. An instant 
later he fell from his horse, shot through. 

“I might have known it!” said the Cap- 
tain ecstatically. “What a fighter he is! 
They have fired the roof.” 

In fact, they could hear the dry crackling 
of the grass covering. A shrill shout told 
that the outlaws saw the success of the 
maneuver which had cost them a life. 
Three or four straggling sparks dropped 
down inside the wall. 

“Out the back wayP said Robinson, 
quickly. “Divide, men, and take to the 
brush on each side. Make for the creek 
and come at them through the trees.” 

The back door was unbarred and the 
men sprang put. Halcott had his old wife 
in his arms. 

“I am going to the horse, Charlie,^ said 

4 


50 A MAID OF THE FRONTIER. 

Anne, throwing one arm arounH his neck. 
‘‘Good-bye!’' and she Bounded like a deer 
across the open prairie. Thirty yards from 
the house the bandits saw her and fired on 
her. Hightower, slowly writhing through 
the grass, heard the shots and ground his 
teeth. Only Robinson’s strong arm kept 
him from springing upright. 

“Quiet!” he whispered. “She’s not 
hit!” and the lithe figure leaped into the 
undergrowth. 

The rangers had gained the thicket. They 
rose and rushed for the creek. The two 
parties reached it at nearly the same time. 
The men to the left, led by a long-headed 
corporal, had suffered no damage. Robin- 
son’s sombrero had been jerked from his 
head by the stroke of a bullet, and blood 
was running from Hightower’s shoulder. 
Halcott, dragging his wife slowly along, 
had left her when the undergrowth was 
gained and straightened unhurt. The 
troopers with them were unscathed and un- 
moved. It was to them merely an unusual- 
ly lively scrimmage. Robinson’s face had 


A MAID OF THE FRONTIER. 5^ 

changed. The loss of his hat irritated him. 
His eyes snapped and his lips were tight 
drawn. 

“By God!” he growled, as he slipped 
from one tree to another, “I’ll kill him if I 
have to follow him to the City of Mexico.” 

Hightower was smiling but pale, and 
walked with difficulty. He was losing 
strength. Harriott’s force were still. They 
knew they had been outwitted in some man- 
ner, and were waiting developments. They 
came with the increasing roar of the burn- 
ing house. Red lines of light darted among 
the silvery trunks. The leaves turned to 
waving bits of fire and the twigs glowed 
crimson in the glare. The bandit, his keen 
eyes glancing to and fro, saw the shadows 
of his advancing foes cast upon the waters 
of the creek. He gave his attention toRob- 
inson, knowing nothing of the body of men 
stealthily moving on his rear. A sharp 
crack and a bit of bark flying into the air 
gave the Captain intimation that his attack 
would be sternly met. It was from a trunk 
behind which one of his men had crouched. 


52 A MAID OF THE FRONTIER. 

The fellow grinned expressively, and 
brushed the splinters from his hair. 

“Got it in for you, Roberts!’’ remarked 
his leader. “Close in quickly, men, and 
shoot at every piece of cloth you see.” 

The parties were not fifty yards apart. It 
was as light as day. The rifles cracked 
viciously. Robinson’s force pressed forward 
steadily, the outlaws holding their ground. 
The Winchesters began to rattle further 
down the stream. Harriott swore and 
glanced savagely round. He was trapped, 
hemmed in. No shelter on the bare prairie, 
now bathed in the light of the burning 
ranch. Only to die as the wild beast dies, 
cordoned^ but game to the last. His hat 
had fallen and his red hair hung tangled on 
his forehead. He gathered himself togeth- 
er, dropped his gun, drew his pistol, called 
to his men and sprang forward. At that 
instant Hightower, shot through the neck, 
sank forward from his tree. Harriott, for- 
getting his woodcraft and his cunning, 
leaped toward him. He had advanced a 
dozen feet, when he sprang high into the 


A MAID OF THE FRONTIER. 53 

air — shot through the heart. Robinson’s 
laugh rang in the trees. The rangers in 
the rear of the hunted desperadoes cheered 
and closed in relentlessly. The fight de- 
generated to a butchery. Three of the 
outlaws fell dead in the creek. Others were 
cut down on the prairie, fleeing desperate- 
ly. Others dropped their arms, shrieked 
for mercy and were shot. 

Robinson stooped over his friend. The 
attorney lay without breath or motion. 
There was the swift thud of a horse’s feet, 
and Anne dashed among them. Her face 
was very pale and set, her eyes luminous 
like stars. 

‘‘Captain,” she said, “the prairie is on fire. 
Where is he?” 

Robinson looked up and she recognized 
her lover’s face. She threw herself from 
her horse. 

“Is he dead?” laying her cheek on his. 
“For God’s sake, say no.” 

“I think not,” responded Robinson, hur- 
riedly glancing round. “There is some life 
in him yet.” 


54 A MAID OF THE FRONTIER. 

“Give him to me!” she replied, bound- 
ing into the saddle. “Lift him and give him 
to me!” 

“God speed you, Miss Anne!” said Rob- 
inson, his face showing pale in the light as 
the men stooped and delivered their bur- 
den. “You must ride for it. We shall do 
well enough in the creek, but a badly 
wounded man could not live in the water. 
Ride straight for Edwardsville. You will 
get there, I know. I have heard our own 
horses break the lariats and go. Tell the 
people!” 

A few turns of the lasso bound the life- 
less man to her. His weight was on her 
lap; his head rested on her shoulder, the 
blood staining the dark bosom of her dress. 
The heat had grown intense, and some of 
the men had already sought the shelter of 
the stream. The fire roared and wept to- 
ward them in waves. 

Anne wheeled her horse and shot into 
the night. A cheer greeted her as she rode 
away. It was a race for two lives. Look- 
ing back she saw the fire span the creek 


A MAID OF THE FRONTIER. 55 

with a rush. The flame climbed up the dry 
trunks and limbs of the trees. She heard 
the steady roar of the freshening prairie 
wind. It was a vortex of hell, surging and 
crackling round the living and the dead in 
the little hollow. She set her face to the 
dark. Startled birds were wheeling and 
screaming in the air. She could hear the 
giant leaps of the red pursuer. The grass 
was knee-high and burned like powder. 
The weight of her lover pressed hardly on 
her. The gallant horse under the double 
burden rushed forward. Every tendon in 
him was tense as iron. Who shall know 
the high resolve, the steady purpose, the 
bravery, the splendid capability for pro- 
longed effort beating in his heart? Dim in 
the front rose a mighty range of dusty hills. 
She was leaving the fire. The molten glare 
was high in the heavens behind her and she 
felt its heat, but she was gaining. Once a 
flying spark had lighted on her hair, burned 
awhile and gone out. She never knew it. 

Looking forward always now. Rising 
and falling with the mighty strides. Lean- 


56 A MAID OF THE FRONTIER. 

ing slightly forward, her hands low, her 
lover’s lashed head upon her bosom. Her 
life was in that freight. Her breath fanned 
his cheek. She murmured his name un- 
ceasingly. 

She breasted the range of hills and, paus- 
ing for a moment, looked back. Save for 
a long line of feeble flame across the black 
earth, all was cheerless darkness. The fire 
had burned itself out. What was the fate 
of those left behind — mother, father and 
friends? She scarcely gave them a thought. 
She was centered on the dying man in her 
arms. Once in the long night he stirred 
uneasily. 

''Gentlemen,” he muttered, "I have taken 
no man’s beast. Stand back from the door, 
there!” 

Even that slight motion sent a spasm of 
pain through her cramped form. The stars 
paled in the sky and the horse moved 
wearily. All the spring was out of him, but 
he plodded on. A single time, in her agony 
of spirit, Anne struck him with the spur, 
then in mercy forbore. The flush of dawn 


A MAID OF THE FRONTIER. 57 


streaked the gray east as she descended the 
divide. Far below her, miles* away in the 
tender light, lay the white spire of Ed- 
wardsville’s church and the slated dome of 
its court-house. 

The sky was a blinding blue and the sun 
was pitiless as the snug citizens of the little 
country town paused on their way to wor- 
ship that Sunday morn and gazed on a 
strange sight. Down the long dusty street, 
on a trembling and shrunken steed, with 
eyes glassy, hair heavy and damp and face 
deathly pale, came a woman bearing in her 
arms a blood-draggled man. The rawhide 
thongs had worn deep into her flesh. 
Streaks of blood had dried on her cheeks 
and neck. The knot of hotel loungers 
sprang into the street and stopped. Other- 
wise she would have ridden straight on. 

“My God! ifs Anne!” cried a woman, 
starting forward and laying her hand on the 
girl. 

She had not seen any of them. High- 
tower was not recognized, so covered was 
his face with the black blood that had ebbed 


58 A MAID OF THE FRONTIER. 

from him. As the pair were carried into 
the hostelry — Anne stif¥ened into sitting 
posture, Hightower limp as a rag — the 
horse, giving a mighty groan as the girths 
were loosened, stumbled awkwardly away. 

'That’s th’ boss,” said one of the men 
eyeing him pityingly, "the girl rode here 
last year. Lord, what a boss he were!” 

"He’ll come ’round all right,” said an- 
other. "Don’t let him get to water.” And, 
on fire with curiosity, they trooped into the 
building. No word more for that faithful 
servant. 

Anne gasped a few words as the woman 
dashed restoratives into her face: "Dick 
Harriott — Captain Robinson — the ranch 
burned — father, mother, where are you?” 

The hardy residents who had built the 
town needed no further explanation. There 
was no church that day. In a half-hour the 
men had left in troops. The women, flushed 
in honest zeal and marshaled by the old vil- 
lage doctor, hovered round the patients. 

"He’ll pull through,” said the physician, 
speaking of Hightower. "It’s only a flesh 


A MAID OF THE FRONTIER. 59 

wound in the neck, and one in the shoulder. 
He has lost a good deal of blood; but she” 
— and he raised his hat reverentially — ^‘has 
suffered more than he.” 

''Ef I had a gal like that,” said an aged 
woman as she gazed on the livid face and 
patted the pillows tremulously, ''there 
wouldn’t be nothin’ on God Almighty’s 
earth good ’nough fur her.” And they all 
nodded approvingly. 

Three months later the little church was 
bright with candles. The central chande- 
lier, imported at great expense from the old 
states and lighted only on extraordinary 
occasions, blazed. The court-room, too, 
had been watered and swept and made 
ready for the dance. Some of last term’s 
used-up quids still nestled coyly in the cor- 
ners, but the place on the whole was pre- 
sentable. Ranged around the only place 
of worship, tied to trees, stumps, fences, 
each other, or standing untied, were numer- 
ous horses and wagons from surrounding 
ranches. Their owners were doing honor 
to the event inside. Robinson was there 


6o A MAID OF THE FRONTIER. 

with some of his men; two died at the 
ranch. Halcott was there unmoved, but 
sad. His old wife’s bones were found 
scorched and blackened by the blast of the 
prairie fire. Canty was there unperturbed, 
and Hord, mildly contemplative, in no one’s 
way save his own. 

The simple words were said and the lean 
old minister stooped forward and kissed the 
bride’s clear cheek, as Anne stood rosy and 
smiling, her hand on the arm of her tall 
husband. 


STATE’S EVIDENCE. 


The prisoner at the bar looked at the 
jury with haggard eyes. His sparse hair ^ 
rose straight in front and fell jagged and 
tangled on a dusty coat-collar. There was 
a nervous twitching in his tobacco-stained 
lips, and shiftiness in the way Re moved his 
long neck and turned hurriedly to confer 
with his counsel. He was the focus of five 
hundred pairs of eyes under whose scrutiny 
he shrank. His face said that He had been 
hard and reckless; a man of deeds against 
the law and its officers; of lax regard for 
the rights of others; of the intense selfish- 
ness so prominent a part in the make-up of 
the criminal. He was a common man, too, 
of the lower order of society — which, by the 
way, he called when he mentioned it at all, 
''sassiety,” and held in contempt. 

One hand grasped the scattering beard. 
His under lip was swollen and scarred by 
61 


6 


62 


STATE’S evidence. 


the discolored teeth pressed against it at 
various times of the trial. Over by the rusty 
stove in the corner a group of young attor- 
neys sat, hair thrown back to expose fore- 
heads, feet placed comfortably on vacant 
chairs, shirt-collars and cravats awry, eyes 
tired and sleepy, laughing and jesting in a 
whisper. 

The judge, old and hard with many win- 
ters, many weary miles of arid circuits, 
many nights out with the boys, closed his 
eyes and, by force of long practice, heard 
every word while his thoughts were else- 
where. The blue-ffies hummed against the 
window-panes, and the jury, one and all, 
seemed suicidal. A pale, tired woman, with 
old sun-bonnet set crookedly upon her ach- 
ing head and a snuff-stick in her moutE, 
held a suckling baby and gazed drearily at 
the prisoner. There were other women, 
too, presumably relatives — all weary, all in- 
terested and all dipping snuff. 

A hum arose from the spectators who 
watched with flagging zeal the legal trag- 
edy before them. The blare of a brass band 


STATE’S EVIDENCE. 


63 


floated into the room with the cries of 
hawkers on the streets — for it was court- 
week and the Rio Grande town was full of 
people. Outside the sun rioted on the white 
sand and unpaved walks and weather-beat- 
en fronts of the houses. There was strength 
and hope and freedom in the swooping 
shafts of heat and in the soft breeze that 
came from over the leagues of prairie. 
Knots of people stood in the darkened 
stores or on the corners eagerly discussing 
the progress of the case and the chances 
of the man who was on trial for his life. 
For it was the State of Texas vs. Gabriel 
Wilkinson, indictment for murder in the 
first degree. 

^‘Tell yer,’^ said one man, as the shavings 
flew from his virulent pocket-knife, ‘‘he had 
orter swing. They're th’ toughest crowd in 
th' county — an' that's sayin' lots. Yer 
don' recklect, mebbe, what oT Gabe's in th' 
hole fur, but I do. It's seven year ago that 
th' killin' uz done; but. Lord, it didn't make 
much stir them times. 

“He were a Jew peddler who come along 


STATE’S EVIDENCE. 


64 

with a big pack o’ notions an’ sol’ goods 
right here in this town — lots! One morn- 
in’ he lef’ for th’ Tordillos settlemint to 
rake the folks down there. He uz known 
to stop at ol’ Gabe’s house fur th’ night an’ 
flashed a big roll. He uz known to leave 
nex’ mornin’ with ol’ Gabe fur guide! Jesus! 
An’ he warn’t seen no mo’. That is, he 
warn’t seen no mo’ sellin’ goods. They 
foun’ him in the woods ’bout a week after. 
All his money and mos’ of his goods uz 
gone. An’ he never knowed what hit 
him.” 

The speaker expectorated freely and re- 
sumed: ‘^But it cr’ated no big stir them 
times. Lord, no! Folks know’d in reason 
that oT Gabe done it. He uz terribul flush 
fur awhile, an’ his young wife — she uz a 
han’some gal w’en he married her — she 
come to chu’ch in a red silk dress as mos’ 
o’ th’ town rec’nized. Many a woman here 
had a-wanted to buy that piece, but the 
Jew asked too much fur it. An’ he sol’ 
it mighty cheap after all. Er-haw-haw! 

'Th’ come new people here with talk 


STATE’S EVIDENCE. 65 

'bout ‘law an’ order,’ an’ ‘State develop- 
ment’ an’ ‘night-schools,’ an’ sich; an’ the 
Sheriff as were Sheriff then warn’t ’lected 
no mo’. Then ol’ Gabe went on the quedow 
— dodge, yer know. He’s been on it ever 
sence. He uz run down like a haver- 
leener in the brush two months ago, an’ 
he made what yer might call a good game 
fight, but ’twarn’t no sorter use. Never is. 
Some says as ’nother man uz in th’ killin’, 
kinder helpin’ Gabe, an’ th’ off’cers is keep- 
in’ him low. I dunno. Gabe never needed 
no help I take it.” 

The hum in the court-house had ceased. 
Night came through the dirty windows and 
the lamps were lit. The spectators leaned 
over the benches, and from the dark back- 
ground their faces glared steadily. It 
seemed to the lonely man, sitting con- 
strained and still, that they were rising to 
the ceiling to fall on and crush him. The 
women were paler and the baby’s cries were 
hushed. The officers were alert. When a 
man opened the door and tiptoed noiseless- 
ly in, hat in hand, the sheriff’s head turned 
5 


66 


STATE’S EVIDENCE. 


and his steady eyes watched the intruder 
until he melted into the crowd. 

The droning, unimportant witness 
stepped from the stand; the judge straight- 
ened and looked eagerly over his pulpit- 
like enclosure; the young lawyers at the 
stove, pretty well filled with stimulants by 
this time, took down their feet and ceased 
to whisper; two deputies stood up calmly; 
the lean prosecutor arose, cast one swift 
triumphant glance at the jury, another at 
the judge, one more at the nervous little 
attorney for the defense, a last long search- 
ing one at the prisoner, turned to the wait- 
ing men and said: 

“Bring in Si Brody, alias John Thomp- 
son, alias William Parker.” 

The effect was like a knife-thrust on the 
man at bar. His dark skin grew a sickly 
green, his small, pale blue eyes turned in- 
ward, his lips drew slowly back, disclosing 
the huge yellow teeth, and his powerful 
hands gripped the chair arms till the knot- 
ted veins rose in rebellion and the wood 
creaked under the strain. Huddled in his 


STATE’S EVIDENCE. 


67 


chair, he looked an incarnation of murder 
crouching for the spring. His faded wife 
rose from her seat, screamed faintly and 
dropped back. In strange perversity she 
wore, even then, a stained, discolored scar- 
let silk gown. 

A silence followed, broken only by the 
rapid beating of the prisoner’s foot upon 
the floor and the quick rustling of papers in 
his lawyer’s trembling fingers. A meas- 
ured tramp sounded upon the stairs, the 
door swung open and the two officers ap- 
peared, their hands resting on the shoul- 
ders of a figure between them. 

All eyes were bent upon him, and he 
knew it. With shuffling tread and hand to 
his face, he was shoved rather than led into 
the witness chair. He was the pariah of 
his class, the detestation of criminals, the 
frequent instrument of the law, the vica- 
rious avenger — State’s Evidence. 

There was scorn and loathing of him in 
every look, from the Judge on the bench 
to the small boy in the rear, industriously 
cracking pecans. Only the District At- 


68 


STATE’S EVIDENCE. 



torney encouraged him with a smile as the 
disgusted clerk arose and offered him the 
book to kiss. He touched it lightly with 
his dry lips and muttered an affirmative to 
the rapid formula. He avoided looking at 
the prisoner, who, with unchanging rigid 
gaze, glared venomously at him. No lead- 
ing questions, were necessary. He told it 
glibly, rapidly, as if anxious to have done 
with it and escape from the inimical atmos- 
phere that surrounded him. 

Yes, his right name was Si Brody. He 
had known the prisoner long. He saw him 
murder the peddler, ‘^Jew Levy.’’ He shot 
him in the head while they were walking 
side by side. The Jew did not speak after 
the shot. The witness and Wilkinson di- 
vided the booty, Wilkinson taking the 
larger share. He had given some of it to 
Wilkinson’s wife. Wilkinson also had 
given some to the woman. The red silk 
was given by Wilkinson. He believed she 
then had on the dress. It looked like it. 
They told her they had bought the goods. 
Wilkinson had planned the murder and 


STATE’S EVIDENCE. 69 

committed it unaided. He (Brody) had 
simply followed his lead. 

“You lie!” yelled the prisoner, springing 
to his feet, his gaunt frame shaken with 
passion. “You did it yourself!” 

For the first time Brody looked at him. 

“I tell th’ truth,” he said. “Your folks 
has threatened my life to keep me from 
tellin’! I b’lieve they’ll kill me yet.” 

Wilkinson sank into his chair. “Y’are 
right,” he muttered. 

It was some hours later that the jury, 
pale, but a unit, brought in their announce- 
ment of murder in the first degree. The 
condemned heard the verdict and sentence 
unmoved. He seemed to breathe more free- 
ly now that the strain was over, and his eyes, 
no longer feverishly intent on proceedings, 
roamed restlessly among the faces, seeking 
his betrayer. Brody had slunk away, after 
a merciless cross-examination, and now 
stood half-sheltered behind the Sheriff. 
That functionary was very grave, and it 
was noticed that his treatment of the State’s 
witness was gentle. 


70 


STATE’S EVIDENCE. 


“It reminds me/’ said one, “of how he 
looked the day he hung Seth Jones, the nig- 
ger.” 

Evidently the Sheriff regarded Brody as 
moribund — a man under sentence, whose 
life-lease was shorter by weeks than that of 
his former companion. If a poll of the five 
hundred people then assembled could have 
been taken, probably not one would have 
refused to concur in the opinion that the 
person of aliases in his desperate grasp at 
liberty had signed his own death warrant. 

He knew it. It was to be read in every 
line of his blanched face, in his shrinking 
figure as he clung to the law he haff battled 
against all his life, personified in the quiet 
officer who could give him no protection. 
When the deputies passed with Wilkinson 
in custody, the condemned glanced only 
once at his former associate, but in the look 
was a world of malice and exultation. He 
went out, the heavy doors shut behind 
him, and, as the last straggler left the room, 
Brody turned to the Sheriff and said husk- 
ily: 


STATE’S EVIDENCE. 


71 


hoss is hitched back o’ th’ court-’us, 
Sheriff. I mus’ be ridin’. I want to put 
fifty miles atwixt me an’ this place by sun- 
up.” 

''Ride fast,” said the officer, "an’ keep 
your eyes skinned.” 

Together the two men descended the 
steps and walked to the south side of the 
quiet plaza, where a powerful black horse 
champed the bit and moved his head up 
and down in recognition of their coming. 

"He’s good,” said Brody, with a wan 
smile, stopping to stroke the tangled mane 
and purposelessly adjust the stirrup. "He’s 
about all I’ve got left.” 

His face was very pale and his lips trem- 
bled as he climbed stiffly into the saddle. 
He turned and held out an awkward hand. 

"I did it to save my life, John,” he said. 
"Won’t you shake hands?” 

The Sheriff stood a moment with folded 
arms, peering up into the dark face above 
him. 

"I’ve shook hands with a murderer afore 


72 


STATE’S EVIDENCE. 


he dropped through the trap/’ he rejomed 
slowly, “but the man I hung were a brave 
man, though he were a nigger, an’ he never 
went back on his fren’s. No, I won’t 
shake.” 

With a muttered curse, Brody stooped 
in the saddle and shot out into the dark- 
ness. The Sheriff gazed after him musing- 
ly a moment, then, shaking his head, 
walked away. 

It was a cloudy night and there was no 
moon to cast shadows. On the wide white 
road that led away from the town was only 
dusky stillness. The sand glimmered faint- 
ly and the ragged bushes stood dwarfed 
and silent witnesses of the race against 
death. A slow wind was abroad that mur- 
mured softly over the lonely stretches, as 
if crooning a whispered warning. 

Sitting low in the saddle, every pound of 
him disposed to best advantage, crouched 
to afford the least possible mark for a bul- 
let; with slouched hat pulled over his eyes; 
with qukk glances roaming to and fro. 


STATE’S EVIDENCE. 


73 


ahead, on either side; starting at the slight- 
est rustle; glaring apprehensively at the 
black stumps of decayed trees ; praying that 
the dark might last and no starlight come; 
stealing a hand down now and then to feel 
the Winchester hugged close under his 
knee, State's Evidence sped along. 

The perspiration rolled from his freckled 
forehead and fell on the wetter withers of 
the horse. The saddle creaked under the 
rapid motion and it seemed to the fugitive 
that the roll of the hoofs might be heard for 
miles. The cactus flew past him in gro- 
tesque shapes and the thorny overhanging 
limbs of the huisache clutched at him with 
murderous detaining grasp. 

‘When I reach th’ Motte de Osa," he 
whispered, “Em safe." 

The thickets had grown denser and the 
road harder and dimmer. He could com- 
pute the miles behind him by the increasing 
wildness and desolateness of the land 
through which he was passing. His horse, 
as he had said, was a good one, but it was 


74 


STATE’S EVIDENCE. 


flesh and blood and was failing under the 
strain. There was no longer the buoyant 
feel under the saddle. The gallant neck 
drooped; the ears, sure indication of fa- 
tigue, were rigid and pointed forward. 
There was labor in the heavy breath, and 
fast coming exhaustion in the weakened 
stride. Ahead was an elevation, just a gen- 
tle rise, and clothed with chaparral to the 
summit. 

‘T will walk him to the top,^^ muttered’ 
Brody. 

He checked the sobbing brute and plod- 
ded slowly upward. He reached the ridge, 
glanced hurriedly about, hung outlined 
for a moment against the dark sky — and 
dropped from the saddle dead. 

Two spiteful snaps of fire preceded, two 
sharp reports were simultaneous with the 
passing. A horse in terror thundered 
down the road. So sudden was it that 
man and beast seemed to have melted into 
air. There was a rustle in the undergrowth, 
and the wind that blew softly was all that 


STATE’S EVIDENCE. 


75 


moved. No form approached the dead 
thing. Far on the breeze came the short 
excited barking of the night fox. The mass 
of vapor overhead rifted for a moment and 
a star shone on the hard face that was still 
forever. 


ON A CHRISTMAS MORN. 


By Way of Explanation. 

The ranger force of Texas is singular. 
There is none other in the world like it. 
The Rio Grande troopers are mounted dep- 
uty sheriffs, having the right of arrest in 
any county of the Commonwealth. They 
wear no uniform. They come from every 
section of the Union and are always 
younger than middle life. Many of them 
are well educated. Yale, Harvard, or 
Princeton graduates are in the ranks — put 
there, of course, by a desire for adventure. 
The pay for privates is $30 a month, for 
corporals $35, for a sergeant $50, for a 
lieutenant $75, and for a captain $100. 
Each man furnishes a horse, arms, blankets, 
and clothing. He and his mount are fed 
by the State. If a horse is killed in action 
the State replaces it ; if it dies from sickness, 
exposure, or fatigue the ranger must buy 
another. For many years the appropria- 
tion for maintenance of these troops has 
been inadequate. They how number not 
76 


ON A CHRISTMAS MORN. 


77 


more than seventy-five men, rank and file, 
divided into five companies. They are of 
necessity nomadic, dwelling sometimes in 
the open air, with no roof save the brilliant 
Southern sky. As their duties are the pur- 
suit and arrests of desperadoes and incur- 
sionists from Mexico, they move at a mom- 
ent’s notice with a rapidity and endurance 
which are the wonder and envious admira- 
tion of the United States cavalry stationed 
here and there along the tortuous Rio 
Grande. Rides of ninety miles straight on 
end are not uncommon. Few as the rangers 
are, they patrol and enforce the law on 
much more than a thousand miles of fron- 
tier. Owing to the fact that each of them 
carries his life in the hollow of his hand, that 
a blurred eye or a trembling finger would be 
practical suicide, they are generally temper- 
ate, but coldly reckless and disregardful of 
human life. In the ranger service of Texas, 
as in all other military services, personal 
courage is a thing of course. 


0 


78 


ON A CHRISTMAS MORN. 


CHAPTER I. 

How He Came. 

They did not believe that his name was 
Wayne. He gave it with steady persist- 
ence during the few months he was with 
them, but it never struck any of them that 
he might be telling the truth. You see, 
asking a man’s name on the frontier is a 
mere formula, filling the place of 'T hope 
you are quite well.” So many of the Rio 
Grande residents have good reason for the 
alias that it has come to be a recognized 
custom to leave the old name behind with 
the old life. 

His long and angular shadow fell across 
the monte blanket spread flat upon the 
ground, and the edge of his ragged som- 
brero touched the knave the Sergeant had 
covered with all that remained of a 
month’s salary. 

“Who are you?” queried that function- 
ary, gruffly, looking up. 

“Charles Wayne,” he said. 


ON A CHRISTMAS MORN. 


79 


“Where you goin'?’’ 

“Coin’ west/^ 

“Well,” with an expressive gesture, 
“yonder’s the settin’ sun. Git!” 

Charles Wayne sat down resignedly on 
the Sergeant’s gorgeous blanket, rolled up 
and stowed somewhat aside out of reach 
of more plebeian bodies, took a plug of 
black tobacco from his pocket, bit off a 
piece, contemplatively chewed, then spat 
and spake: 

“I hev traveled fur,” he said, wearily. 
“Sometimes on foot, sometimes on a 
horse, but mostly on foot. I haven’t had 
a perticular place to go to, but I’ve kept 
goin’. I’m a mighty tired man, an’ I ain’t 
goin’ no further. I’m hungry, an’ I haven’t 
slept none since last winter. There ain’t 
no water in the land, an’ my shoes are 
worn out. This country is all hills an’ 
thorns. You’re the first white man I see 
this week an’ more. I’ve run with greasers 
until I doubt whether I’m an Amerikin my- 
self. An’ I ain’t goin’ no further.” 

He looked around with a wide open and 


So 


ON A CHRISTMAS MORN. 


moist gray eye, his jaws worked placidly, 
and he settled more comfortably on the 
blanket. 

‘'Got no cheek,’’ said the Sergeant, 
gloomily; “but we’ve plenty to eat an’ won’t 
move for a week. Just keep settm’ on 
that blanket till you grow to it. Darby, 
git on with the deal. If that jack falls with 
his head to the east the money’s mine.” 

Wayne made no response. He was ap- 
parently deep in past errors and resolving 
to do better. His large, bony hands were 
clasped loosely around his knees; his chest 
sunk in and head drooped forward. He 
had the air of a weary man. He was 
not at all good to look at. ' His face was 
long, sallow, and thin. His hat had fallen 
from his head, and his stubbly iron-gray hair 
stood up straight and stiff. Just over the 
right temple was a bushy lock of silvery 
whiteness. His ears were large, red, and 
bent forward. Sometimes, when he sat 
erect and got them between one and the 
light, they had a frightened look, as of 
some hunted rodent. When spoken to 


ON A CHRISTMAS MORN. 8l 

suddenly, his hand wandered to his mouth 
in an aimless fashion, and rubbed slowly 
back and forth. He was an unsuccessful 
man, his face said, and a silent one, much 
tried and buffeted, given to long musings 
and profitless adventures. 

He sat there seemingly content. Pres- 
ently he took a childish interest in the 
game. When a player won, a shifting sym- 
pathetic smile spread over his face. When 
another lost, he frowned and jerked his leg 
impatiently. He had become so rapt in his 
intentness that first one noticed him and 
then another until almost the whole atten- 
tion of the men centered on him. The 
only exceptions were the dealer, who, in 
monte, was a purely business man, and a 
lithe-limbed, black-eyed young fellow, 
Cavin by name and known as The Youth, 
who had lost steadily. 

The gloom had fallen slowly, and long, 
dusky shadows were dancing among the 
mesquite. The horses stood huge and in- 
distinct in the background, and, save for 
a sudden half-neigh or impatient stroke of 
6 


82 


ON A CHRISTMAS MORN. 


the fore foot, were stilled for the night. 
The winking stars had stolen out one by 
one and shone bright and cool in the rare- 
fied air. The new moon, a thready cres- 
cent, hung poised above the red flush in 
the west. There was a solemn stir in the 
dense leaves. The tender limbs swayed, 
but the rugged cacti stood stiff and 
straight, higher than a man’s head, and re- 
fused to listen to the wooing of the breeze. 
They were ghostly sentinels grouped in the 
dark, watching with steady heads and rigid, 
outstretched arms the intent game. The 
swirls of smoke drifted in the faces of the 
players and swept away, leaving a pungent 
scent behind. Now and again a flaring 
spark dropped on the blanket and was hur- 
riedly brushed aside. 

“Don’t do that! For God’s sake, don’t 
do that!’^ said Charles Wayne, grasping 
The Youth’s wrist. “Don’t never put it on 
the seven when they ain’t nary ace out. 
You’ll lose certain — certain!” 

“What’s that to you?” Cavin said, 
wrenching away. “Whose money is this? 


ON A CHRISTMAS MORN. 83 

Who rode for it night an' day? Whose 
been savin’ for this very game? I’ll gun 
you if you do that again.” 

‘‘You can’t learn these fellows anything, 
Charlie,” said the Sergeant, placidly. He 
had already become familiar with Wayne. 
“You can’t learn ’em anything about mon- 
te. I’ve spent the best part of my wages 
for two years learnin’ ’em, an’ they don’t 
know yet — an’ me neither,” he added, re- 
flectively. 

“I thought to myself, maybe,” said 
Wayne, “that if I give him a pointer it 
might do him some good, but. Lord, he 
won’t take it. These kids know more’n 
all the old ones put together. Git along 
with the game, gentlemen. I’m not inter- 
ruptin’. Git along with the game!” 

The party resumed its old attention. 
The cards flickered down from the dealer’s 
hands and settled lightly on the wnnkled 
cloth. 

“Alcey!” said the dealer, handing the 
deck to Gavin and indicating with a care- 
less motion of the head that he should cut, 


84 


ON A CHRISTMAS MORN. 


alcey!” said another, reaching out 
a grimy paw. ^‘Seems to me that I ain’t 
had a cut for two months.” 

‘Take it back!” said Cavin, with a dan- 
gerous flash in his eyes. “Snatch that fist 
back!” and, seizing a small switch, he dealt 
the importunate a savage swish across the 
knuckles. “They’re my cards this time, 
for sure.” 

There was an oath from the man struck 
as he drew back his reddened hand and 
glared viciously at his peremptory adver- 
sary. “Some of these days, Dick Cavin,” 
he said, slowly, “you’ll get a bullet through 
you quicker’!! a flash of lightnin’ on the 
prairie by one of them tricks. My gun’s 
in my tent an’ my tent’s over yonder, an’ 
you knew it, d n you!” 

“Deal!” said the Sergeant, briskly. “You 
fools are always jawin’ an’ doin’ nothin’. 
Deal!” 

The Youth had up his last cent. His 
black eyes were glued to the dealer’s hands 
as if he possessed the power of divination. 
He leaned breathlessly forward, his face 


ON A CHRISTMAS MORN. 


85 


pale, his lips drawn and clammy. There 
was a nervous twitching in his fingers and 
he looked like some young and beautiful 
beast crouching for a spring. The dealer 
was a large, clumsy, uncouth fellow, with 
fat and purposeless face, tremendous legs 
and cumbersome feet. He was loose- 
jointed and mild looking. He had spent 
some time around the flash hells of the 
cities, and was popularly supposed to be a 
past master in the art of “putting them up.” 
A glance at his expressionless, vacuous vis- 
age would have reassured any one, but the 
men in camp told marvelous tales of his 
finesse and the tremendous raids he had 
made on the Mexican gambling booths at 
the fiestas. Hence, Cavin watched him 
and was prepared to believe almost any im- 
possible act of defraudment or theft. 

“Wedl take a square deal. Darby,” he 
said, feverishly. “I’ll cover the queen. 
She’s never gone back on me yet, an’,” he 
added, significantly, “I don’t want her to 
this time.” 

Darby gazed at him with his fish-like 


86 ON A CHRISTMAS MORN. 

eyes, taking a minute inventory of what he 
had said and what it implied; then, hitching 
a belt he wore around him and glancing 
down to see the weapon it suspended, re- 
sumed the deal. 

The cards fell slowly, but with the re- 
morselessness of fate. To Cavin with his 
all staked on their chances, the painted 
faces seemed some to wear grins of mock- 
ery and others looks of warning. They 
made no sound as they came down, but 
every noiseless settle on the blanket beat 
in on his brain and throbbed in his heart 
with the stroke of a hammer. Once the 
Sergeant, fancying he saw something shifty 
and uncertain in the dealer's fingers, 
nudged his elbow, but he paid no heed. 
He, too, had probably seen it. It was what 
is termed a “long deal," that is, no winning 
or losing card had slipped from the dealer's 
carelessly careful hands. He, the im- 
passive embodiment of destiny, gave no 
sign of the tumult within him. His fat 
face was unpaled, his expressionless eyes 
as lightless, his steady wrists as skillful as 


ON A CHRISTMAS MORN. 87 

at the beginning of the game. He sighed 
wearily once or twice, as the cards brought 
no settlement of the issue, but dropped 
back into stolidity. When all eyes were 
fixed on him — and he bore their scrutiny 
well; when he saw the pale face and blaz- 
ing eyes of his adversary — and he never 
blenched — when he knew that if he won he 
would have to shoot his way to life — and 
he gave no sign of his thought; the gaudy 
king dropped slowly in his front. 

‘^Queen loses,” he said, sententiously, 
and reached out a hand for the money. His 
arm was struck away, and he confronted 
the maniac loser. 

'‘You cheated,” screamed The Youth, 
his face blood-red and his weapon in his 
hand. “I saw it with my own eyes. You 
drew it from the middle. I saw it. Take 
that.” 

The weapon, a glittering line of light in 
the flashing fire, covered Darby squarely 
and flame burst from it as its owner pulled 
the trigger. With the shattering report, 


88 


ON A CHRISTMAS MORN. 


the receding men and trembling horses saw 
intended murder — and its foiling. 

A tall, ungainly form had bounded in 
front of the loser, a long arm had struck up 
the pistol, a sad strained voice had called, 
‘Tor God’s sake!” and, with the drifting of 
the smoke, the impassive dealer stood un- 
harmed, while Charles Wayne wiped the 
blood from a bullet graze on his cheek. In 
another instant Cavin was grasped by a 
dozen hands, hurled to the ground, de- 
prived of his weapon, bound and borne 
shrieking to the ragged provision tent to 
spend the slow night in company of army 
bacon and coffee and lard and crackers and 
rats. 

“It was a square deal, an’ you all saw it,” 
said Darby, conscientiously pocketing the 
money. “That feller don’t play no more at 
my game.” 

“You needn’t go no further west, Char- 
lie,” said the Sergeant, gazing admiringly 
at the placid Wayne, as he cleaned his face 
with a new flannel shirt which one of the 
men in temporary excitement had lent him. 


ON A CHRISTMAS MORN. 89 

^^Yoit did it well. If you’ve a mind to ride, 
there’s your horse. If you’ve a mind to 
work with us, the job is yours. If you 
want to come with us, say so.” 

“I’ll come,” said Wayne. 


CHAPTER II. 

Why He Came. 

He leaned far forward in his saddle and 
was talking. There had been a heavy 
rain and the horses plodded and slipped pa- 
tiently. The gouts of mud on the Ser- 
geant’s heavy boots and the flying drops of 
water spurted by the hoofs claimed a good 
share of his attention, but he was a patient 
man, albeit a rough rider, and he listened 
fairly well. 

Wayne had improved to an appreciable 
extent since his introduction to the service. 
He had lost something of his wearied look 
and his clothes were new and substantial. 
He rode with the spraddling seat of a man 
more accustomed to the plow than to the 


90 


ON A CHRISTMAS MORN. 


scout’s saddle. He had girthed around 
him a broad belt, containing a number of 
metallic cartridges, and a new and shining 
six-shooter, the which he seemed to regard 
with grave distrust. He had long been 
made acquainted with the inner mysteries 
of camp cookery, midnight round-ups, for- 
ays, pursuits, court attendance and jail 
duty. He had known something of the 
wild joy of the rush in the warm midnight, 
and had seen in the early morning the law’s 
relentless grapple with its pale fugitive. 
He had borne himself with a kind of blind 
faith in his tutors and blind recklessness of 
consequences to himself. He seemed to 
be possessed of sufficient vitality to stand 
the forced rides and never complained of 
anything. He was a good man to have 
around camp, being always willing to lend 
a helping hand. Perhaps it was his free- 
dom from all save the nominal restraint of 
a service wherein discipline is practically 
absent; perhaps it was the discovery of his 
ability to earn his rations and warm 
clothes; perhaps it was the effect of the 


ON A CHRISTMAS MORN. gt 

bracing air, or the rough work, or the com- 
panionship, such as it was. At any rate, an 
indefinable quantity of his old painful un- 
certainty had gone from him. He still had 
the shifting motions of the hands, and his 
light gray eyes wandered uneasily to the 
Sergeant’s face, but there was something 
in him that marked a change. There had 
germinated in his brain a hopeful idea 
which gave some relief to facial muscles 
long drawn, or there had come to him some 
faint inner suggestion of a better and 
higher purpose than had yet moved him; 
or a capability for something better and 
higher. 

He had elected to make a confidant of 
the Sergeant, though he seldom talked 
long to any one. No doubt the officer 
wished he had chosen some other. Long 
after Wayne had finished that which he had 
to say his companion was given to impa- 
tient snorts and thrusts of the spur, and 
sudden dartings across the road, which he 
generally ended by jerking and lashing his 
horse in a very savage manner. 


0 ^ 


ON A CHRISTMAS MORN. 


The masses of mesquite were green with 
a luscious color under the leaden sky. 
They stretched away an unbroken tangle 
for miles on either hand. Their tops waved 
together in the slight breeze, and the feath- 
ery frondage was an undulating sea of 
emerald over which swift shadows raced 
and queer dancing dimples of shade. So 
green was it, so beautiful in its wild aban- 
donment and loneliness, so free from any 
hint of defilement, that it looked like a 
bosky mirror into which one might gaze 
and half expect to see reflected a shifting 
face green-tinted. The rugged, prickly 
pear, whose broad elliptical leaves were 
spiked and forbidding, grew in uncouth 
clusters. Its red flowers showed in the un- 
dergrowth like clots of blood. It lent an 
element of harshness to the scene. The 
snoujted peccary crossed the road in front, 
or a deer, his brown hide draggled by pas- 
sage through the leaves, stood a moment 
as though beautifully carved from clay, 
then leaped into the brush with the speed 
of light. The rain-crow on either hand 


ON A CHRISTMAS MORN. 


93 


was hoarsely calling, and the monotonous 
iteration and reiteration of the cicada was 
on the air. The chaparral cock, with 
tufted head, darted uneasily in and out of 
the undergrowth, or fled by some narrow 
pathway on feet which scarce touched the 
ground. The splashy steps of the horses 
punctuated Wayne’s droning words: 

'T’m an officer of the law now. Sergeant; 
you made me one; an’ I say an officer must 
keep his mouth shut if he wants to live and 
do well; but it was only a triflin’ matter, 
an’ it was a long time ago, an’ I don’t mind 
talkin’ to you, bein’ as you are my friend. 
I was a likely man enough six years back 
an’ more, an’ I was a handsome man, too. 
Better lookin’ than Cavin, who is so flip 
with his pop, an’ better lookin’ than any of 
these young fools girdin’ at me all day long. 
I owned a little farm back in the East coun- 
ties, an’ I worked her like a nigger. It 
was give to me by my father, an’ I allowed 
to stay on it as long as I lived. 

'The crop was fair six years ago, an’ I 
was happy. I had some money in bank 


7 


94 ON A CHRISTMAS MORN. 

an’ was puttin’ in more. I didn’t drink no 
liquor, an’ I didn’t play no cards — them 
days. Every blessed Sunday that come 
’round found me at the little log meetin’ 
house, an’ I throwed as much into the hat 
as I was able, seldom, if ever, forgettin’. 

‘There moved in near my place a man 
that said he come from Mizzouri, an’ he 
had the prettiest girl I ever saw — an’ no 
money. I was forty years old, but when 
I saw her at meetin’ my heart turned to 
water an’ run out to her. I said to my- 
self: 

“ ‘Pretty little woman, I want you at 
my house’ — an’ I acted accordin’. 

“What’d I do? I went up to her and I 
said: ‘My name is Charles Wayne, mad- 
ame, an’ if agreeable I’d like to keep you 
company home.’ Don’t see anything to 
laugh at in that, do you? An’ she looked 
down shy, an’ her old dad gave his consent, 
an’ we walked home together. I eat my 
dinner there. It was a dinner she 
cooked — she didn’t have no mother — an’ it 


DN A CHRISTMAS MORN. 95 

was good. I drove her to singin’ school 
that night, an’ I took her home. 

“The breeze was blowin’ soft an’ low an’ 
the stars made the skies white. It was a 
lovely night. Over the tops of the pine 
trees the young moon hung, an’ one little 
branch cut her across the face. There 
was flowers on the air, for it was spring, an’ 
the creek where we stopped to water the 
old horse looked like silver. I remember 
as we drove through the woods we waked 
a dove that had its nest by the road, an’ it 
sat there an’ cooed till we were out of bear- 
in’. 

“I told her about the people an’ the 
country, an’ said I was glad she had come 
down to stay, an’ she allowed that she was 
glad, too; an’ I felt big inside, like I could 
drive that wagon right over the trees. We 
had many a ride after that, but none like 
that one. Lord, Lord! it seems so long 
ago.” 

The Sergeant sighed sentimentally and 
spurred his horse. Wayne cleared his 
throat and looked aimlessly ahead. Per- 


96 ON A CHRISTMAS MORN. 


haps in his ugly eyes there were tears. A 
slow drizzle had recommenced and the 
whole landscape was sad-colored. The 
limbs had lost their verdant tinge and 
seemed drenched and pallid. Down the 
horses’ smoking necks and shoulders little 
streams were running and the ceaseless 
drip-drip of the water from the leaves pat- 
tered a monotonous accompaniment to his 
dispirited voice, 

''One night — it was in the summer, an’ 
the sun was burnin’ hot all day — I asked 
her to marry me, an’ she said she would. 
It was a hard year on stock and her old 
man lost pretty near all he had, so he made 
no objection. She was a modest little 
girl, an’ she wanted to wait till late fall, 
but I wouldn’t hear to it. You bet, I 
wouldn’t! The neighbors come in droves 
to see old Charlie Wayne yoked an’ eat old 
Charlie Wayne’s grub. There was a sight 
of feedin’ an’ drinkin’ an’ dancin’, an’ the 
preacher got so full he had to be hauled 
home. My little wife was pale an’ happy 
lookin’. 


ON A CHRISTMAS MORN. 97 

‘‘She told me once that night, when I 
was dancin’ with her, an’ bowin’ an’ scrap- 
in’ an’ sasshayin’ backward an’ forward, 
that she was goin’ to do her levelest to 
make our little home comfortable; an’ 
while she was there, so help me God, it was 
a palace. I rose early every week day, an’ 
I worked the fool mules till night, an’ never 
cussed nor beat ’em — I never felt like it. 
When I unhitched the team, when the sun 
was hangin’ low in the west, an’ rode up 
the lane, I always found her standin’ in the 
front door with her sleeves rolled up an’ 
her arms all flour waitin’ to give me a kiss 
afore I bedded down for the night. 

“She was happy as a lark, an’ as for me, 
God help me, I was too happy! 

“About four months after we were mar- 
ried, or maybe five, there come an angel 
light into her eyes, an’ her cheek was like 
the dogrose all day long. She told me one 
night what was the matter, and cried when 
she told it. An’ when our baby came. Ser- 
geant, I was the happiest old fool in seven 
States. It was a girl, a little brown-eyed 

7 


98 ON A CHRISTMAS MORN. 

girl, that laid an’ blinked an’ laughed. An’ 
I worked harder’n a nigger. 

'‘It was two years after in the early fall. 
I come to the house in the evenin’s dark 
with a big load of corn, the last. All the 
way up from the field a picture kept run- 
nin’ in my head of the little wife at the door, 
with her hair blown about, an’ the bright 
fire behind her, and the tangle-headed kid 
laughin’ an’ jumpin’ in her arms. I turned 
the bend in the road an’ the house was still 
an’ dark. No light in the windows, no 
smoke rollin’ an’ tumblin’ from the chim- 
ney, no wife an’ baby in the door. The 
mules struck a trot, though I never 
touched ’em. I jumped from the wagon 
with my heart in my mouth an’ my eyes 
starin’ straight ahead. It was blacker’n 
hell inside. I found the matchbox after I 
fell over a chair or two, an’ struck a light. 
It was all empty an’ cold. With every 
drop of blood in me turned to a stabbin’ 
icicle, I looked through the three rooms 
an’ out in the back yard. I called out loud. 
No answer. I went back to the front room 


ON A CHRISTMAS MORN. 99 

an' set down. Then I saw a scrap of paper 
on the table lyin’ under the edge of the 
Bible I bought to put our baby’s name in. 
A little scrap, but bigger to me than any 
volume ever writ. You know what it was! 
My wife an’ baby were gone! She did not 
say she had stopped lovin’ me — that wasn’t 
needful, I knew it. She didn’t say she loved 
anybody else — she was too pure a woman, 
an’ I knew that wasn’t so. She did not say 
she was sick or crazy, or changed from 
the tender wife to a tearin’, gougin’ wild 
beast. She just said: 

‘My Dear Husband: Baby and I have 
gone away. It was so lonely when you 
were in the field. We are not coming 
back. Supper is in the safe, and the keys 
are under the pillow. Forgive us.’ ” 
Wayne had reached into the bosom of 
his shirt and extracted a piece of dirty pa- 
per, colored and yellow with age. He 
looked at it with his pale eyes and handed 
it to his companion. The Sergeant took 
it, scrutinized it as if seeking some trace 
of the missing woman, turned it over. 


lOO 


ON A CHRISTMAS MORN. 


looked at its blank side, folded it with 
heavily gloved fingers, and gave it back. 

"'D d queer!’' he muttered, “but just 

like a woman. You can^t never make ’em 
bridle-wise. Break ’em with a curb an’ 
they rare an’ fall back on you. Break ’em 
with a snaffle, an’ they bolt hellwestern 
crooked.” 

“When I read that note,” said Wayne, 
“I sprung from the chair like a man had 
shot me through the head. I looked out 
of my door and there were streaks of fire on 
the night. It was clear an’ cool, but the 
stars shifted an’ spun like one of these toys 
of colored glass you hold to your eye. 
There was one in the house I bought for 
the baby, an’ I thought of it even then. 
My throat was parched an’ an iron band 
was round my breast. God, how near 
death seemed! 

“I thought of the rifle that hung on the 
wall an’ what a blessed thing it would be 
to send my brains spatterin’; of the deep, 
sluggish creek not a hundred yards from 
the house an’ how cool an’ dreamless a 


ON A CHRISTMAS MORN. 


lOI 


sleep on its bottom would be; of a thousand 
things in half as many seconds. She was 
gone; I knew that. She an’ baby were 
gone far away an’ were not cornin’ back. 
She said that. She was a woman that al- 
ways spoke her mind. But somehow I 
couldn’t get it into me. When I tried to 
think which way she went I thought of 
how the field looked with the stalks 
stripped of the corn an’ the cotton yet un- 
picked. When I thought of my baby’s yel- 
low hair an’ brown eyes an’ music laugh that 
I was never to see an’ hear again, the words 
of the fool hymn we had sung together at 
last meetiii’ kep’ ding-dongin’ in my head; 
‘Marchin’ in the cross, marchin’ in the 
cross; your soul git lost, your soul git lost.’ 

“With the thought that maybe they 
hadn’t been gone long I jumped for a horse 
and galloped like a crazy man down the 
road. The wind that blew up while I was 
standin’ stupid came straight in my face, 
lashed my cheeks, an’ moaned in the tops 
of the tall trees. I hit the creek like a bul- 
let an’ got over it, I don’t know how. Old 


102 


ON A CHRISTMAS MORN. 


familiar fields swept by me an’ the zigzag 
rail fences looked as straight as a rule. 
Heavy boughs hit me an’ I never felt ’em. 
The leaps of the horse when he crossed 
ditches or stumps never stirred me in the 
saddle. His heavy pantin’ begot no mercy 
in me. I lashed him with the reins an’ 
drove my heels into him, beat him with my 
fists an’ prayed for a weapon that I might 
kill him. I remember that once I raised 
my hand to my mouth an’ bit it till the 
blood run down an’ fell on the pommel of 
the saddle. 

'Tt was mornin’ and the whole earth was 
as sad as my face an’ soul, when I found I 
was in a prairie country, open with no tim- 
ber in sight; an’ I knew I was far from 
home. I got down an’ stood by the side of 
the road an’ cursed my wife and child an’ 
self, an’ God. Then I mounted the poor 
beast, that shook an’ trembled under me, 
an’ rode slowly awa^y. I would never go 
back, I made up my mind, an’ I never did. 
The place was of no use to me. I had 
worked it for all it was worth. I had spent 


ON A CHRISTMAS MORN. 103 

my sweat on it. I had built me up a happy 
home, an' this was what it brought me. 
The walls that were hung with pictures my 
wife had cut out an’ pasted with her own 
hands were blank to me, an’ I hated ’em. 
The chickens an’ dogs my baby had fed an’ 
loved were all left alone, and I wanted ’em 
to die. If the house would burn up, I 
thought, or a rain of fire from Heaven 
come down an’ blast the farm so that noth- 
in’ could find a livin’ there, I would like it. 
I sold my horse, for I had no money, an’ 
went after my wife on foot. I asked people 
I met, but nobody had seen her. Some of 
’em looked at me kind of queer, an’ others 
laughed an’ said she’d gone with a han’- 
somer man — addin’ that she couldn’t well 
go with an uglier — ^but I paid no heed to 
’em an’ I s’pose now that I had ridden so 
far out of her track all chance of findin’ her 
was lost. I never heard word nor saw sign 
of her from that day to this. I wrote back 
to the old place once an’ learned that stran- 
gers had rented it from my cousin. He is 
welcome to the money, but I pity the fam- 


104 ON A CHRISTMAS MORN. 

ily that lives there, for the house is cursed 
an’ I know they are cursed, too. 

'That’s why I’m here. I don’t never ex- 
pect to find my wife, nor the little baby girl 
that climbed on my knee an’ talked to me 
like the cooin’ of the wind. Maybe they’re 
better off than dependin’ on an old man for 
a livin’. If I could find ’em, my wife might 
live apart if she chose — but I want to see 
my baby that come to me like an angel in 
the dark, an’ went away like one of them 
beautiful dreams you can’t recollect next 
mornin’.” 

"Charlie,” said the Sergeant, "you’ve 
had a hard row to hoe.” 


CHAPTER III. 

How He Went. 

The Sergeant stood straight and tall by 
the leaping camp-fire and extended one 
long, powerful arm above his head. He was 
between Wayne and the sunset and re- 
minded him of one of the fire-blackened 


ON A CHRISTMAS MORN. 105 

pines he had known ^‘back in the East 
counties/’ 

“You hear me speak, Charlie?” he said, 
pointing to a thin web of gossamer that 
floated overhead, “that means a norther. 
More’n that, this old back of mine, that 
Fve been totin’ ’round for thirty years an’ 
more, says so; an’ what that back says Fll 
swear to/’ 

“Me, too,” said Wayne. 

“I disremember now,” resumed the Ser- 
geant, “whether it was in ’79 or ’80, but one 
or the other. We were makin’ a most un- 
holy ride from Ysleta straight down the 
Bravo. I was ridin’ along an’ dreamin’ to 
myself about Dolores Garcia, which I had 
danced with in Paso the night before, when 
somethin’ gripped me in the back. The 
norther caught us in three hours. Since 
that time the signal service inside of my 
shirt has never failed to telegraph me when 
to look out for the blue wind that comes 
down on a man and runs around him like 
a knife with a saw-edge on it. That was 
Christmas eve; which reminds me that this 


I06 ON A CHRISTMAS MORN. 


is Christmas eve, an' we’ve got a hard ride 
ahead of us.” 

‘‘Where to?” inquired Wayne, listlessly. 

The Sergeant thought, as he looked at 
him, sprawled by the fire, that he had never 
seen him appear lazier or more shiftless, 
and he had unlimited capabilities in that 
line. 

“Down the Pena,” he said, shortly. 

“What’s up?” 

“Well, there’s an American rustler start- 
ed him a ranch down there. I heard it 
from Manuel Diego, who knows him well. 
We’ve been wantin’ him for two years and 
over. Killed a man, or stole a horse, or 
somethin’, I forget exactly what, but I 
know we want him.” 

He took a paper from the pocket of his 
short coat and unfolded it, read it carefully, 
and announced that his quarry’s name was 
Skaggs, “which,” he added, “is by no 
means a pretty name, but it’s better lookin’' 
than the man, I reckon.” 

“I’d like to stay in camp, Sergeant,” said 


ON A CHRISTMAS MORN. 107 

Wayne, “my horse is poor, an’ I feel slimp- 
sy myself.” 

His hand had gone to his mouth and was 
bashfully passing back and forth. He 
glanced at the officer momentarily, then his 
shifting eyes wandered around the camp, 
took an exhaustive look at a small shrub 
which was showing dimly, and dropped to 
his feet. 

“Not to be thought of,” declared the Ser- 
geant, “there are only six of us, an’ from 
what I’m told of Skaggs I’ll need you all. 
You’ll have to make the horse carry you, 
Charlie. If he can’t do it you’ll have to 
git down and carry him.” 

^ 5fc 

It was night. The sun had poised In the 
west for a space, then dived, like a swim- 
mer to his plunge, and the gloom settled 
down. The flashing tongues of the fire 
painted the surrounding limbs in streaks of 
red, and tiny sparks soared heavenward 
and died. The sky was a steely black, and 
the stars winked chillily. There was no 


Io8 ON A CHRISTMAS MORN. 

moon. A light rack of gray vapor pre- 
ceded the norther, but had long since 
drifted away. It was bitter cold. The 
blasts of wind cut like whips and leaped at 
the men’s cheeks in a succession of stings. 
They were huddled around the fire, amid a 
mixture of old saddles, bridles, blankets, tin 
cups, canteens, overturned coffee pots, and 
smutty, greasy cooking vessels. They 
were waiting for the word to move, which 
the Sergeant had said would be given at i 
o’clock. 

“It is ten miles to the Skaggs ranch,” he 
said. “Slow ridin’ will git us there by 3, 
which is as soon as I want; an’ too soon 
for some of you,” with a hostile stare at 
Wayne. 

That member of the troop was, as usual, 
lying down, his ungainly legs sprawled in 
seemingly interminable length along his 
blanket, the worn saddle, that had served 
him for the past months, under his head, 
and his rusty boots showing huge in the 
half-light. He turned wearily and gave 


ON A CHRISTMAS MORN. IO9 

the Sergeant a deprecating glance. Speak- 
ing was too great an exertion. 

“It seems to me/’ said The Youth, “that 
Charlie is gettin’ mighty no account. That 
old crow-bait of his would have starved to 
death yesterday if somebody hadn’t fed it; 
an’ I had to chop the wood that’s keepin’ 
his worthless bones warm now.” 

“Never paid me that two dollars,” inter- 
jected Darby. “Lost it fair. Swore he 
could pick up the right card for four bits, 
didn’t do it. Swore he could pick it up for 
a dollar’n a half, lost again. You all saw 
it. Never paid me yet. You saw it, Cav- 
in;” but Cavin, remembering his own dis- 
astrous raid on Darby’s treasury, declined 
to back the statement. 

“I’ve seen low-down greasers playin’ 
three-card,” he said, “but never any decent 
white men. The man who bucks against 
that kind of game is a fool; the man who 
runs it is worse than a fool; an’,” illog- 
ically, “there ain’t anything worse.” 

Darby’s slow crackling chuckle answered 
him. “An’ a man,” he said “who bets al- 


8 


no ON A CHRISTMAS MORN. 

ways on the queen, an' never on anything 
but the queen, is two fools rolled into one, 
an’ that’s worse. What you all say to a 
little deal now?” 

But the wind had increased in violence. 
It had grown from isolated gusts to a 
steady peal of air that made monte dealing 
impossible. 

It seemed to Wayne that he had never 
seen a worse night. He lay where the 
smoke poured over him in a blinding 
stream. “Because,” as he said, “no one 
would bother him there.” 

The gale boomed across the prairie for 
miles to the north and struck the timber 
line of mesquite with fury. The gnarled 
branches intertwisted and shrieked as if 
under the surgeon’s knife. They looked 
like sentient things as they writhed in the 
darkness, with ghastly voices of pain. 
Every limb bore its burden of pale leaves 
mingled with poisonous thorns, and they 
rasped and stabbed each other in very 
impotency. The Sergeant, whose pro- 
phetic back had sent forth its warning, 


ON A CHRISTMAS MORN. 


Ill 


squatted on the ground and moaned, rising 
in crescendo until he reached a savage 
shout of execration, then sinking to a piti- 
ful murmur. The wordy jars of his subor- 
dinates interested him not. If the camp 
had pulled its weapons and butchered it- 
self on the spot, he would have looked on 
an approving spectator. He heard no 
loved voices in the storm, nor listened to 
the rebellious baritone of the aerial or- 
gan. Save for his tremulous wails, he was 
almost as still as the worn old man on the 
farther side of the fire, who hated so to take 
the ride. 

“When I get across that old gray, if I 
don’t put my spurs into him an’ make him 
eat up the groun’, you may call my dad’s 
boy a liar” — thus the Sergeant. 

Wayne smiled slowly as he heard him. 
“Seems to me. Sergeant,” he said, “that I 
wouldn’t have a weather clerk inside of 
me for anything. A strappin’, hearty 
young fellow, too. Here am I, an older 
man, an’ maybe an uglier man — may be 
so, may be not — but my back don’t have 


112 ON A CHRISTMAS MORN. 

the misery for a little wind. Whyn’t you 
lead a sober an’ godly life — an’ put off this 
ride for about five months, when the weath- 
er ’ll be warmer an’ my horse seal fat?” 

'T\\ catch our man to-night,” said the 
Sergeant, ‘^or he’ll catch me^ — or maybe 
you,” with a steady stare at the moralist. 

'Tm not afraid of that,” said Wayne. 
‘H’m a heap more afraid of some of the fool 
boys in this crowd, always turnin’ their 
guns loose for nothin’ in God Almighty’s 
world but to hear ’em sing. ‘You just 
stand off, my friends,’ says I, ‘an’ I’ll corral 
all my enemies.’ That’s what I say.” 

He turned, with the black smoke surging 
into his queer eyes, and spat disgustedly in- 
to the fire. 

The stars in their infinite courses had 
shifted and the night had attained an added 
black, the wind a fiercer fury. Far off, 
smit by the heavy storm, arose the tremu- 
lous cry of the coyote as he crouched shiv- 
ering in the long grass. The crowded, 
broken, tangled notes sounded like the el- 
dritch voicings of a maniac spirit. They 


ON A CHRISTMAS MORN. 1 13 

came sweeping down the wind, and Wayne 
half rose to- his feet. He had been some 
months in the southwestern country, but 
had never outgrown the electric sensation 
produced by the night cries of the little ani- 
mal that skulks by day. The Sergeant 
looked around eagerly, and the men rose 
slowly in obedience to his glance. 

‘Time to be off,” he said. “Darby, you 
were on herd to-day. Bring up only the 
riding stock; we will take no pack to- 
night.” 

The professional stumbled away briskly 
into the dark. He soon returned, leading 
six horses by the stake-ropes. They were 
bridled and saddled with incredible rapid- 
ity. Each man stood a moment in the fire- 
light and examined his weapons and cart- 
ridge belt. The line of metal tubes 
around their waists looked like girdles of 
gold. Wayne had moved more slowly than 
the rest. As he arose he thrust a discol- 
ored piece of paper into his shirt. As he 
turned to mount he passed one misshapen, 
grimy hand across his eyes. 

8 


1 14 ON A CHRISTMAS MORN. 

''Seems to me,” muttered Cavin, as the 
party, the Sergeant in the lead, moved in- 
to the night, "seems to me that Charlie’s 
gettin’ chicken-hearted. When a man gets 
that way in this profession he’s gone. He 
come mighty near stoppin’ a bullet for me 
once. Some time he’ll stop one for some- 
body else.” 

"This is Christmas eve, Charlie,” haz- 
arded another. "Did you hang up your 
stockin’ in the tent?” 

"More likely he was calculatin’ how 
much he could spend for a picture of a red 
and blue saint to carry in his boot,” said 
another. He chuckled, and the others fol- 
lowed his lead. 

Wayne sat in his saddle like a bag and 
said nothing. He was used to the rough 
chaff of the camp, and rarely replied. 
Perhaps he did not understand the half of 
it. He was a plain man, and by no means 
a religious one. His life had been full of 
errors; but he had been bred by old-fash- 
ioned, God-fearing parents, and in a com- 
munity of religionists. Through the grime 


ON A CHRISTMAS MORN. 115 

of his ignorance and later life of reckless- 
ness still sprouted some remnants of the 
old teachings. He was bent on an errand 
of justice, possibly of murder. It was work 
which in that state of society, or rather 
lack of society’s restrainments, was rigidly 
necessary. He had heard of him whom 
they were hunting. His name had filled in 
many an idle pause around the camp-fire. 
He had heard him called drunkard, thief, 
and murderer, the terror of isolated border 
communities, the assassin of men who, un- 
armed, had pleaded to him for life, the suc- 
cessful breaker of the law and evader of 
the law’s pursuit. He had heard, too, that 
he was married and had children, married 
to an honest, ignorant country girl, whose 
heart he had broken, and of whom he had 
made a beast of burden. There was pity 
for him, though, in Wayne’s heart. He 
knew that the man was apt to resist arrest, 
and that resistance to his fierce and busi- 
ness-like companions meant bloody death. 
It seemed to him that their journey was 
horridly out of joint with the time. 


Ii6 ON A CHRISTMAS MORN. 


The wind had died almost down, and the 
stars shone crisp and clear. The ground 
was frozen stiff and the hoof-beats sounded 
musically. With his wife and child again 
in his arms, the wanderer, hardened as he 
was, could have knelt to the kind Dispens- 
ing Power and blessed it. He had heard of 
the child in the manger and the watching 
herdsmen. He thought that possibly it 
might have been on such a night, and in 
such a wide-plained and brown country that 
the holy tidings came. He had been much 
given to thinking of late; he did not know 
why or of what he thought. There was 
nothing in common between him and his 
associates. They were rough, and wild, 
and hard; free of speech and ready of hand. 
He was a tender, trusting, faithful man by 
nature, with a certain immovable inertness 
in him that might have passed for determi- 
nation. He had seen blood spilled during 
his short life as a State soldier — on one oc- 
casion had been forced to assist in shed- 
ding it — and he hated it. He looked out 
over the wastes, as his horse wearily kept 


ON A CHRISTMAS MORN. 1 1? 

pace with the others, and sighed. He re- 
membered that on Christmas eve three 
years ago he had pinned with his own 
clumsy hand his baby’s tiny stocking to the 
mantel, and filled it with such sweetmeats 
and cheap toys as he could afford. He re- 
membered the dancing light in the brown 
eyes on the following morn; its eager 
clutches at the treasures, and the pleased 
look on his quiet wife’s face. He brushed 
his hand across his eyes again, and hoped 
that in the dark nobody had seen him. 

He straightened in his saddle and tried 
to think of something else. Then there 
came to him the remembrance of how he 
had spent his last Christmas eve, in'a West- 
ern village, with but little money, no ac- 
quaintances, and beastly drunk. He had 
gone to the little church where the gift-tree 
festivities were in progress, and, minding 
not the happy child faces round him, had 
blinked and leered and foolishly laughed at 
all the minister said, until the deacon had 
come to him and led him stumbling out. 
It made him very sorrowful, and he inward- 


Ii8 ON A CHRISTMAS MORN. 

ly said that he would never again so squan- 
der what was left of his manhood, but in the 
hope that some day he might again feel his 
baby’s arms around his neck, would lead a 
sober life, and keep clean for the meeting. 

There was an odd sense of exultation in 
him now. He seemed to rise in the saddle 
with the movements of his horse, and felt 
young and strong again. The still cold was 
in his blood. His bridle fingers were stiff- 
ened, and he rubbed them unconsciously 
with his other hand, but he felt no ache. 
He must find his people, and they would 
have a very happy life. There should be 
no recrimination; no wordy jarring; no 
blame. He would take his wife and child 
to his breast, and tell them only how glad 
he was to get them back. 

“She never spoke a hard word to me,” 
he whispered, “why should I?” 

And Christ and His tender mother and 
the angels were abroad. A suggestion of 
good was in the ciir and a murmur of in- 
finite peace and content in the rustling of 
the leaves. There was a laugh of benefi- 


ON A CHRISTMAS MORN. 1 19 

cence and joy in the winking of the sky’s 
brilliants. The very tramp of the steeds 
seemed to mark time to some sweet prom- 
ise fulfilled. In his head ran the words 
of a long-metered hymn he had often heard 
in the happy, stainless long ago — “Jesus 
died on Calvary. He was very kind to me.” 

He could see the bare old church amid 
the sweet-smelling pines, the rapt and quiet 
faces of the elder people of the congrega- 
tion, the smiles of the younger, the white- 
haired minister bowed down in silent prayer 
at the further end; hear the choral swell of 
the voices; listen again to the slumberous 
murmur of the breeze among the needled 
branches. Near the place there ran a little 
laughing creek. He had known it when 
but a child. Was it the water’s music that 
he heard now, with its tiny plashing 
over the smoothed pebbles — that? There, 
ahead in the dark, was the log he used to 
cross long before he saw his faithless wife. 
What sounds were those which rose from 
the massy chaparral? What words were 
whispered in his ear by the kindly angel 


120 


ON A CHRISTMAS MORN. 


that flitted by him and fanned him with its 
wings? “J^sus died on Calvary. He was 
very kind to me — kind to me — kind to me.” 
Was that a star which hung so low up- 
on the prairie, and far? It was too red, and 
had no twinkle. Was it a light? Had the 
time come? 

'^Close up!” said the Sergeant. 

They moved quietly forward, and as they 
moved they knew it shone from a small 
cabin perched on a rise, free from the 
strangling brush. With a bound they were 
off together. The hoofs rolled with a thun- 
derous swell like the beatings of a crack 
drum corps. Where were his dreams now? 
All forgotten. Wayne was but human, and 
the hunter lust was in him. With the sweep 
of fate they went down on the devoted 
house. The fierce longing of the beast for 
its prey was in them. Cavin’s face showed 
in the dark, set with a fangy smile. They 
could see the low roof now, a sharp line 
against the sky. The Sergeant in front, on 
the white horse, led the way with mighty 
leaps. The stars raced over them in streaks 


ON A CHRISTMAS MORN. I2I 

of fire. The biting air roughed their cheeks 
like a file. Every drop of blood in them 
was a bounding globule of flame. They 
sat low in the saddles and peered eagerly 
forward. Now and again some one of them 
straightened up and restlessly drew further 
to the front the weapon that swung at his 
waist. Under their knees they felt the 
Winchesters in the long scabbards, and 
pressed them close. Jets of steam rose from 
the beasts' nostrils and were left behind, 
light flecks of momentary mist. With a 
rush and a whirl and a thunderous clank 
and clatter, they dashed at the door. 

“Open in the name of the law," com- 
manded the Sergeant, using the set de- 
mand. 

“Who be ye?" quavered a woman's 
frightened voice. 

“Open to the law, or we'll smash the 
door." 

“To h — 1, you cowardly dogs," came in 
gruff tones. 

The Sergeant raised his rifle and hurled 
the heavy butt against the stout planking. 


122 


ON A CHRISTMAS MORN. 


He was answered by a shot from the inside. 
Darby, always cool, placed the muzzle of 
his pistol to the lock and shattered it. The 
door swung back with a crash, and they 
bounded in. They were confronted by a 
giant of a man, with red beard straggling 
to his breast. A frightened, wan-eyed wom- 
an crouched in the corner, holding a baby 
in her arms. Two pale children sat speech- 
less on the ragged bed. 

“Throw up your hands,” snapped the Ser- 
geant, with leveled weapon. 

The man looked at him furiously, stood 
pondering a moment, then yelled: “YouVe 
hunted me like a dog! You can’t take me 1” 
and stared stanchly. A little child, with 
touzled yellow hair, pattered across the 
floor and was snatched to his bosom. The 
Youth, all the brute in him surging to his 
tiger eyes, threw his Winchester to his 
shoulder and mercilessly pressed the trig- 
ger. There was a rushing in the air, an 
inarticulate cry — was it of warning, or ter- 
ror, or triumph? — an angular shape in front 
of the tongue of smoke and fire, and 


ON A CHRISTMAS MORN. 123 

Wayne, a writhing thing upon the floor, 
with a bullet in the back. Already the chok- 
ing blood rattled in his throat. And the 
child with yellow hair was safe. 

'The little child — the little child — ” he 
moaned — IVe found you at last — 

the plowin's almost done — ^Jesus died ’’ 

He closed his eyes, and his lean and 
wrinkled face was beautiful. The stars were 
paling in the east; and it was Christmas- 
tide, and its white glory was on the world. 


THE INSULT OF AN ANCESTRY. 


Charles Hornung was a Southerner born, 
but not a Texan. Between him and the 
people he found himself among, there lay as 
wide diversity as two types may show. His 
eyes had first seen the Carolina rice-fields, 
and the spirit that grew with his growth 
was indicative of the strains of his blood. 
The rusty swords of his father and his 
grandfather, and his great-grandfather’s 
father hung above the wide fireplace 
in the hall. Sweet-faced ancestresses 
looked down from the walls of every 
chamber. Old writings had come to him 
and he treasured them, for they told him 
that his race had been a true race through 
many dead years before the foam of the 
western Atlantic wet the prow of the vessel 
that bore the first of his name to America. 
The few negroes about the place, when it 
went to another, called him “Marse Char- 

124 


THE INSULT OF AN ANCESTRY. 125 

lie,” and the old horse that had borne the 
elder Hornung through four years of civil 
strife, tenderly cared for and not bestridden, 
had died the day before he set his face to 
the west. 

His boyhood passed amid scenes of what 
he was taught to believe had once been 
grandeur. The low-lying fields, the acres 
of swamp, the groves of frondage had all 
been his and were his no longer, but he 
still had left a chivalric reverence for wom- 
en, a pity for all that was weak, and a ten- 
der admiration for the lovely. He had also 
an implicit belief in the departed glories of 
his tribe and land, a distaste for that which 
was new and uncouth, a high regard for 
himself and a want of understanding of the 
needs and possible productions of strange 
environments — not a man, you would say, 
to readily adapt himself to changed condi- 
tions and certainly not one to make him- 
self warm in the hearts of strangers. 

He was young and clean-limbed, of the 
swarthy lean type that carries a suggestion 
of quietude and reserved strength. A life 


9 


126 THE INSULT OF AN ANCESTRY. 

of some extravagance, and but little good 
to himself, had brought him to Texas to re- 
cuperate health and strength. He nursed 
the delusion that he was consumptive, and 
a railway prospectus caught him. 

When he saw Centralia it seemed inviting 
enough. The houses were white-painted, 
the window-blinds all green and the roofs 
all a dark red. Most of the buildings had 
been designed by a traveling architect, with 
a taste for whisky and the visions it begets. 
It was a jolly looking place, with a bac- 
chanalian air about the cocked, jostling 
roofs and merry little windows. Standing 
upon his hotel piazza, looking down the 
only street and noting the confused tangle 
of corners, gables, roofs, chimneys and 
eaves, Hornung thought of the tremens, 
and the small houses in the ardent sun 
danced fantastically before his eyes. 

Its people were all from other states, men 
who had come to look at the country and 
staid. They spoke with a Northern accent; 
while the women with the aid of certain 
colored plates imitated the latest Northern 


THE INSULT OF AN ANCESTRY. 127 

fashions. It was a thriving community, 
and the natives who lived on the ranches 
round about looked and listened wonder- 
ingly at its ceaseless activity and gabble. It 
had not learned to rest, and would not until 
the third generation. The social features of 
the town were remarkable for one thing 
only — the almost utter exclusion of native 
attractions. At the frequent teas or at the 
whirling dissipation of the monthly dance 
in the court-house, few Texan faces were 
seen and few Texan topics tapised. Those 
of this transplanted society who alluded to 
the quiet people, whose money they got, 
did so in a despairing way as of a race that 
needed elevation, but whom it was too 
much trouble to elevate. 

They had no attractions for Hornung. 
They were money-grubbers and gossipers — 
things he detested; and they were North- 
erners — things he detested more. Having 
no respect for his pedigree, declining ut- 
terly to be impressed by it, they were frank- 
ly anxious as to his dollars. Ascertaining 
that he was a Southerner, and that various 


128 THE INSULT OF AN ANCESTRY. 

members of his family had fallen in South- 
ern armies, they elected to talk war to him, 
expansively condemn slavery and point out 
the mistakes of Lee. The man was slum- 
berously fiery under a repressed manner, 
and when he had been dragged into argu- 
ment and exhausted his presumably weak 
lungs in denunciation of Federal policy, 
was treated with amused pity and left with 
the knowledge that he had made a fool of 
himself. 

He bought him a ranch. It was not an 
expensive affair, as southwestern ranches 
go — twenty thousand acres or so — not 
likely to gain him or lose him much. He 
knew nothing of cattle-breeding, but was 
willing to learn. He was willing, too, to 
go back to the open country he had always 
loved, and anxious to escape from the op- 
pressive flavor of the county town. It was 
quiet out there, and the green hills rose 
around his home in an endless succession 
of verdant upheavals. It was early summer 
in the season of his purchase, and there 
were flowers on them and waving leaves 


THE INSULT OF AN ANCESTRY. 129 

along an arroya that trenched liis posses- 
sions and went dry in the torrid summer. 
He had paid for it as ''permanent water.” 
He found joy in the sweep over the prairies, 
in the long chase of the antelope, with the 
green grass swishing his horse’s hoofs and 
the soft wind humming in his ears. He 
grew contented and his old-fashioned fan- 
cies were jostled out of his head by contact 
with the rude active life around him. He 
learned something every day — learned, 
though he did not know it, to be a better 
integral of the human whole. He became 
patient in speech and noted for kindness to 
his men and beasts. So much will constant 
contact with Mother Nature do. There 
was an indefinable charm in his gentleness, 
and, though astonished, his rough riders 
liked the smooth polish of his tones. Hav- 
ing been used to the cattle baron or his 
immediate underling, they would have gone 
far and fared hard for him. The pleasant 
way of making a request of an ordinary 
command made them think better of them- 
selves. 


130 the insult of an ancestry. 

“He’s th’owed away in this country,” 
said Peter, one of the cooks. “He oughter 
go back home and marry rich.” Paul and 
John, the other cooks, agreed with him — 
and it may be said here that Hornung did 
marry rich. 

He had ridden far one day and stopped 
to rest upon the banks of Arroya Pena, ly- 
ing straight on the green grass with the 
leaves of the cottonwoods mimicking rain 
over his head. The wonderful Texan sky 
was of a deep, painful blue, and white flecks 
sailed across it, speckled here and there by 
black dots of wings of the slow-moving 
vultures. The breeze bore healing for sick 
frame or mind. Resinous odors were blown 
from the pine belt fifty miles to the east, 
and all around was a warm suggestion of 
growing. With his cheek upon the soft 
carpet of earth, Hornung heard the beat 
of rapidly advancing hoofs. He could mark 
the distinct strokes and judge by their in- 
creasing strength the rate at which the rider 
was coming. He had learned something of 
the craft of the prairies, and was aware that 


THE INSULT OF AN ANCESTRY. 131 

the horse was of the pony order and ridden 
probably by a light weight. He miscalcu- 
lated, however, the swiftness of the ad- 
vance. He had determined to rise and look 
at the flying figure as it passed, when horse 
and rider appeared upon the slope not fifty 
feet above, and, in the impetus of descent, 
came straight upon him. He had just time 
to straighten into rigidity and mentally 
bury himself in the earth when a foam- 
flecked body shot over him in a mighty* 
leap, and above it was the pale, scared face 
of a girl. They struck the shallow waters 
of the creek with a giant splash, the water 
flew high into the air a million diamonds, 
and the panting pony reeled and fell upon 
his knees on the opposite bank. With a 
strenuous tug of the rein and a backward 
sway of the body, the rider picked up her 
fallen carrier, then turned and looked at the 
young man lying pale, but smiling slightly. 

''Did I hurt you?” she asked, shortly. 
"What are you doin’ lyin’ around in the 
road? Seems to me you’ve got mighty lit- 
tle to do!” 


132 THE INSULT OF AN ANCESTRY. 

“I wouldn’t murder a man and then in- 
sult the corpse if I were you,” said Hor- 
nung, aggressively. “I’m not in the road; 
there’s no road here; and I make a busi- 
ness of lying around.” 

The girl’s large blue eyes looked at him 
curiously, and the rich color came back 
slowly to her white cheeks. She was clad 
in an impossible costume of blue calico and 
red bonnet. Her hands, brown and un- 
gloved, rested lightly on the pummel of the 
saddle, which he now saw was the ordinary 
immense Texas affair, intended only for 
cow-hunting males. One stirrup had been 
removed, and the other, slightly long for 
her, dangled against her small, heavily-shod 
foot. She was young and robust, with clear 
skin and lovely mouth and teeth. Under 
her closely-fitting gown the muscles of her 
rounded arm showed firm, and she sat in 
her uncouth saddle with a skill acquired In 
early childhood. The red bonnet, a queer- 
ly-shaped affair, with splinters in it like a 
corset’s, was blown back and hung flapping 
by a moist green ribbon. Her reddish hair 


THE INSULT OF AN ANCESTRY. 133 

curled massively over a low, broad fore- 
head, and it, too, was damp. 

'What’s your name?” she said. 

"Charles Hornung,” he answered quietly. 

"I might ’ve known it. You’re the man 
who runs the new-fangled ranch and thinks 
a greaser’s better than a white man. You 
shore don’t belong here.” 

"Admitted,” said Hornung, cordially. 
"Where do you belong, and what’s your 
name?” 

"Melinda Rouse,” she responded, see- 
ing nothing strange in his manner or ques- 
tions. "I b’long on this side the ’roya; 
you b’long on that. That’s how we never 
crost before.” 

"Well,” said Hornung, rising and looking 
about for his horse, which had nibbled its 
way to the summit of the ridge and showed 
outlined against the sky, “we’ll cross again 
some time soon. I’m coming to see you. 
How far down the creek do you live, and 
how shall I find my way?” 

"Mr. Hornung,” said the girl, looking at 
him straight and soberly from under her 


134 THE INSULT OF AN ANCESTRY. 

level brows, you do it. You don’t 

b’long down there; you’re not wanted 
down there; and don’t you come.” 

She wheeled her pony and clattered up 
the hill. Reaching the ridge she swayed 
slightly as she turned and looked down at 
him, standing silent and watching her as- 
cent. The sharp line of land flashed up be- 
hind her and she was gone. 

Hornung rode thoughtfully homeward. 
The mellowness had gone from the air and 
the sun was harsh and glaring. When the 
line riders came in at night, reeking and 
dusty, a few inquiries extracted all they 
knew of Melinda Rouse — which was little 
or nothing. 

But on the subjects of ''old man” Rouse, 
Jeff Rouse, his son, and Jose Arrivas, a 
"half-Mexikin, half-coyote,” as they ex- 
pressed him, who lived in the house and was 
supposed to be an accepted suitor, they 
were eloquent. "A d — d set of thieves and 
cut-throats,” said Chick Haralson, himself 
a partially reformed cattle-lifter and speak- 
ing by the card. "Men who stole for a liv- 


THE INSULT OF AN ANCESTRY. 135 

ing and murdered for fun. The terror of 
peaceable stock-raisers; the nightmares of 
officers; people who lived in the ffirush’ 
because ' they could not live on the 
prairie; who checked the development of 
the country and kept decent men out of it; 
a God-forsaken set who ought to be run 
out of a country intended for white men. 
D — n ’em again!” And so said they all of 
them. 

Here was an opportunity Hornung had 
wished; a chance to rub against a new phase 
of life in the Southwest ; an invigorant war- 
ranted to neutralize any amount of ennui. 
He would ride down the creek in the morn- 
ing. 

Then Haralson turned to him and, in Me- 
linda’s words and with a look singularly like 
that she had worn, said ^^Don’t!” His hear- 
er was young and not to be scared of his 
purpose, albeit he had not an idea of what 
he should do when he got there. He 
laughed at Chick, and told him his head 
was thick with last week’s Centralia whis- 
key, looked to his horse with unusual care 


136 THE INSULT OF AN ANCESTRY. 

and went to bed filled with a feeling of 
pleasurable excitement. 

sfc ^ ^ ^ ^ 

It was noontide, and the sun was hid be- 
hind a thick layer of cloud. The character 
of the country was changed, and instead of 
shining free and open in its green, was 
choked in a tremendous undergrowth of 
chaparral and cactus. Every growing 
thing had its thorn, with a sack of poison 
in the tiny point. The soil was dark and 
musty, for around the tangled roots it had 
lain for years and seen no sunlight. The 
horse plodded along with nose near knee, 
and no life in it. The warm saddle creaked 
with the movement and a strange, disagree- 
able smell rose from the leather and min- 
gled with the dank odors of the under- 
growth. The path, not more than fifteen 
inches wide, turned and twisted like a snake. 

It made one abrupt curve around the end 
of an immense mesquite which had fallen 
near its edge, and Hornung, looking up, 
saw straight ahead a small cabin, with Me- 
linda standing in the door. The rude roof 


THE INSULT OF AN ANCESTRY. 137 

of water-grass was gray with many storms 
and blistering suns, and the interior behind 
the girl was an inky black. In the half-tone 
atmosphere she seemed a beautiful setting 
in a frame of ebony. He dismounted and 
approached her with deference, hat in hand. 

“I told you I was coming,” he said. 

The girl returned his mdld gaze steadily. 
Then her eyes shifted, and she glanced 
anxiously over the surrounding bushes as 
she picked nervously at her dress. 

“I knew you would,” she answered. 
‘There was bad luck in your face an’ bad 
luck in our crossin’. It was meant for me 
to do you harm, an’ it’s cornin’.” 

“Say rather,” said Hornung, “it was 
meant for me to do you good, and I have 
come.” 

“Go away!” she exclaimed, rapidly. 
“There’s your horse! There’s your road! 
Why did you come? For God’s sake, go!” 

To Hornung’s face the blood was com- 
ing. It beat in his temples. His eyes were 
blazing, his lips quivered, and his throat 
was hot and dry. He saw only the pale face 


138 THE INSULT OF AN ANCESTRY. 

before him. He seized the hand which hung 
loosely by her side, and bent until his mouth 
touched her cheek. 

'‘Not unless you go with me!’’ he said, 
hoarsely. 

She started as if struck, and looked at 
him white and bold. “I’m a poor girl, but 
honest. You don’t mean me fair. I don’t 
know your city ways. You are too good, 
an’ not good enough for me. Leave before 
it’s too late.” 

“You do me wrong!” said the man, pas- 
sionately. “By God! You do me wrong! 
I love you! You rode over me — was it yes- 
terday or a week ago? I will lie down and 
let you ride over me forever if you will 
come!” 

She gazed at him a little space, then say- 
ing, “Wait for me!” turned into the hut. 
A moment later she reappeared bearing the 
bonnet. Under it Hornung thought he had 
never seen a woman look so coy and fair. 
She walked rapidly to a dense grove of 
small trees near the house and plunged into 
them. When he saw her again she was 


THE INSULT OF AN ANCESTRY. 139 

mounted and coming toward him. With 
a smile of contentment he threw himself in- 
to the saddle. ‘'You lead, I follow,” he 
whispered. 

With the word her fiery mustang reared 
straight in air, and with a bound was off, 
disdaining the path, speeding, as the crow 
flies, straight through the brush. Hornung 
saw the mighty leaps of her horse, saw her 
sway and turn under the overhanging 
branches, saw the upstretched fingers of the 
thorny shrubs catch at her skirt and tear it ; 
felt the hot air strike his face like the blow 
from a whip, felt the delirium of the motion 
in every nerve; loved her power, her dar- 
ing, her skill, her sacrifice for him; and for 
once in his life was happy. He did not think 
of his pedigree, of the traditions of his 
house, of his cultured kin, of his own fu- 
ture, of the suitability or unsuitability of his 
mate. The world held only the fleeing 
woman before him. It is possible, though, 
that stirring in him then and spurring him 
on was the blood of some border ancestor 


140 THE INSULT OF AN ANCESTRY. 

who, in the long-dead centuries, had ridden 
such a ride with a stolen maiden. 

The pace was telling, and the breathing 
of the brutes was short and loud. The girl 
rose in her saddle, and with a magnificent 
sweep of the arm pointed ahead through 
the interlocking branches to a faint streak 
of light that came through. 

“The prairie!” she laughed back to him. 

They stopped at the open, and while 
Hornung dismounted to tighten the girths 
on the trembling horses, she glanced shyly 
at him and then away. 

“Fm cornin’ with you,” she said shame- 
facedly, “because I like you, an’ they say 
you’re a good man. The life at home was 
too hard to bear: I heard nothin’ all day 
but swearin’ and keerd-playin’. Fve got 
no mother. I know nothin^ an’, same time, 
I know heaps more’n they wanted me to. 
You won’t be too hard on me, will you? 
I — I can’t even write my name!” 

Said Hornung, as he looked up at her 
and wiped the perspiration from his eyes: 
“I will make a woman of you.” 


THE INSULT OF AN ANCESTRY. 141 

It was evening when the ranch was 
reached, and the line-riders, vaqueros and 
cooks crowded round in wonderment. The 
girl sat quiet with a pleased smile as one 
by one the men came awkwardly forward — 
in rustling leggings and with knees wide 
apart — to shake hands. She was smiling 
still when Hornung stood beside her and 
said: 

“Boys, Miss Rouse is a brave woman. 
She is going to be my wife, and will boss 
us all. Chick, saddle two fresh horses. A 
preacher is wanted.'^ 


10 


THAT WAY MADNESS LIES. 


Ridgville took its name from old man 
Ridgway. The old man got his name, he 
used to say, from his uncle. His father, 
who had been a drunken farmer in North 
Carolina years and years ago, he never men- 
tioned. Ridgway’s first names, it was com- 
monly reported, were Absalom Benjamin. 
He was never known by any appellation 
other than ‘‘old Ab.’’ He was 6 feet 3 
inches high, and had long given up hunt- 
ing for a horse that could carry him with 
comfort. He had lungs like a bellows, 
and a heart as big as a barrel. He had 
been a hard-working man in his youth, and 
in his age and idleness owned half the coun- 
ty. He had a hundred brands of cattle and 
horses. His wire fence measured 130 miles. 
It was twenty miles from his front gate to 
his house and four from his house to the 
back gate. He employed legions of Ameri- 

142 


THAT WAY MADNESS LIES. 143 

can and Mexican line-riders and vaqueros. 
He was a voluble swearer, and exercised 
himself on them. He rose with the day 
and went to bed with the wild birds that 
occupied his principality of a pasture. He 
chewed, smoked and drank. He was 65 
years old, and as strong as an ox. He was 
a millionaire twice over. He was fond of 
his heinous name, and had given it to every- 
thing he owned. The ranch was Abton. 
The creek which ran through it was Ab 
Creek. He had possibly a score of horses 
called Ab; his chief brand was a tremen- 
dous AB, and his only child and daughter 
he had blessed as Abla. His wife died many 
years ago — pined, sickened and died of too 
much Ab. 

The girl was a good girl enough, and a 
very pretty one. Having heard of her fa- 
ther’s dollars all of her life, she carried her 
head high and stepped like a pampered filly. 
She had an imperious look out of large gray 
eyes, had seen so many peons lashed and, 
possibly, had lashed so many herself, that 
she seemed more than half inclined to lay 


144 THAT WAY MADNESS LIES. 

her heavy riding whip upon the shoulders 
of any man who failed to do her bidding. 
She had received the typical Texas educa- 
tion for women of her class — had attended 
public school taught in the little country 
town from the age of 8 to 14; then rested 
two years; then gone North for two years 
and returned: Eighteen years old, plump 
and domineering, with enough French to 
show that she hadn’t any, a smattering of 
geography and history, no mathematics 
whatever, no needlework, but lots of 
crochet, a savage hand for the piano, an ex- 
cellent taste in dress, a rattling tongue in 
her head, and~graduated. 

In Ridgville^ she was envied, hated, ca- 
ressed and a model. On Ab Creek she was 
an object of worship and the sibilant toast 
of the Mexic herders. To old Ab she was 
a revelation, an incarnation of the true, the 
beautiful and good. Aside from his exces- 
sive liberality and honesty, the ranchman’s 
love for the girl was the best thing in him. 
He had seen her grow and expand day by 
day; had nourished her, cherished her, 


THAT WAY MADNESS LIES. 145 

played with her, spent money on her, taken 
her childish abuse with giant good nature 
and loved her with all of his rugged soul. 

“My gal!” he would say; “Lord, God 
Almighty! there ain’t no gal like my gal 
in forty states. Git right down an’ come in. 
Just let her talk to you; let her play the 
planner for you!” and the visitor would sit 
rapt while Abla thumped “Silvery Waves” 
from the new Steinway. 

That was a queer community in Winn 
county. The elder half of it “had religion,” 
and frowned on dancing with the frown of 
Zeus. The younger, which in its own time 
would also get religion, thought there was 
no aim in life but the “sasshay,” no heaven 
but what they were pleased to term the 
“round waltz.” There were not many of 
them — the country was thinly settled — but 
the few did duty for a million. Year in and 
year out, summer and winter, spring and 
fall, wet times and dry times, hard times 
and flush times, they danced. Were a 
couple married: dance. Were they di- 
vorced: dance. Was a child born: dance. 

10 


146 THAT WAY MADNESS LIES. 

Did a child die: go to the funeral, discuss 
the weather, the last shooting, past dances, 
future dances, and the next night — dance. 

Into such terpsichorean community was 
Abla inducted. She was strong, and had 
received the best of training from Mons. 
Guillaume, especially imported by the 
Smithville Ladies’ Institute at tremendous 
salary, and with whom she had some tender 
passages. In her escritoire, among old pens 
and dusty flowers and locks of hair cut from 
the heads of callow students, was a note 
from the insane Frenchman imploring her 
to forsake her unrelenting parent and “take 
the wings with Guillaume, ma charmante.” 
It was well for Abla that she had received 
rough tutelage in childhood. She was a 
level-headed girl, and, save for some fleet- 
ing memories of the pale Guillaume, who 
had a wife and six children in the little 
baker’s shop in New York, came scathless 
from the heart combat. She found the 
Ridgville people hard to talk to, but hard- 
er to dance with. Her animal spirits car- 
ried her through the hauling quadrilles, but 


THAT WAY MADNESS LIES. I47 


she could not waltz with men who bobbed 
stiffly up and down, or revolved all night in 
a circle two or three yards in diameter. 

So it happened that close on midnight, 
with her beautiful silk strained and torn, 
and an all-over feeling as if the prancing 
Ridgville youth had tramped on her instead 
of the floor, she put her head out of window 
and took a breath of fresh air. It was a 
moonlit night, and moonlight in Southern 
Texas means light. She could have read 
the small print of her morocco Testament, 
which she never read. The little town lay 
quiet along the sandy streets and the bare 
court-house plaza looked like a gigantic 
table-cloth spread for a feast of night spir- 
its. There was a slow murmur in the air, 
and the oaks which grew along the little 
river quivered like silver. 

''My dance, I think,” said a voice behind 
her. She turned and saw a tall, straight 
young fellow, with long, open black eyes. 
He was clothed in the frontier evening dress 
— a clean shirt and other things — and 
looked at her with a stare of admiration 


148 THAT WAY MADNESS LIES. 

that was not in the least offensive, be- 
cause he had no idea that it would prove 
so. 

^Tlease excuse me, Jim,” said the girl. 
''I am danced to a stand-still. The Ridg- 
ville folks are well-meaning but violent. My 
bones cry aloud for peace, peace, and there 
is no peace.” 

He sat down by her and looked at her, 
puzzled. He thought her very beautiful, 
but had never heard a girl talk of her bones 
before. He was debating whether a young 
woman who was so free in anatomy might 
not stand a little Western flirtation, such, 
for instance, as “You’re mighty pretty,” or 
“I never did see anybody look as sweet as 
you do,” when she broke in with: 

“You look astonished that I do not care 
to dance with you. Why should I? You 
can’t dance. You only hop. You have no 
training. You can’t talk. You are dressed 
like a mixture of butcher and Sunday clerk. 
You ought to go to school.” 

Forny had known Miss Ridgway from 
babyhood. He had played with her when 


THAT WAY MADNESS LIES. 149 

she was a skinny-legged chit, tearing her 
stockings in the chaparral. He had sat 
with her on the same bench under the vil- 
lage pedagogue. Once she had slapped 
him because he refused to deliver some 
sweetmeats which she coveted. As he 
looked at her, sitting fagged and handsome 
and supercilious, he could feel the sting of 
her fingers on his cheek. 

^^As to school,” he said slowly and pain- 
fully, “I’ve been to school right here, an’ 
you know it. What’s more, I knew more 
them days than you did. But I ain’t been 
North to learn how to spen’ money for fine 
fixin’s, an’ come back and strut over ol’ 
frien’s.” 

He rose and moved away with hot blood 
in him, not turning to look back. His face 
was set and pale and his eyes dilated. She 
watched his broad back until he passed out 
of the doorway. A moment after she heard 
the clatter of hoofs and, glancing out, could 
see his black figure flying down the white 
and level road. 

“An awful temper, that,” she said. “I’ll 


150 THAT WAY MADNESS LIES. 

never know these people again. Dad did 
wrong to send me away.’^ She felt weary 
and chilled. 

Her father leaned against the wall, his 
ponderous figure rolling slightly as he 
talked excitedly of the drouth to a knot of 
neighboring stockmen. His sombrero rest- 
ed solidly on the back of his head, and a 
wide smile spread over his grizzled face as 
he saw his daughter. She stepped slowly 
to his side and calmly surveyed the men 
who gazed at her, silent and stolid: “I want 
to go home. Dad,’’ she said as she laid her 
hand on his arm. ‘‘I do not suit these peo- 
ple, and they do not suit me.” 

Old Ab took her face between his two 
great hands, then stared at his companions 
in mystification. ^‘You’re clean broke 
down. Ably,” he said, genially, “just trotted 
right off your hoofs. Let me tell Jose to 
bring ’round the horses. It’s ten-mile to 
the ranch, an’ I’ll shake you up so^s you’ll 
be lively by the time we git there. Th’ ol’ 
man’s not so good as he useter be, but he’ll 
give you a spin just to wake you up, gal.” 


THAT WAY MADNESS LIES. 151 

They clattered from the door, the girl 
sitting in the saddle true and straight. She 
had sped through the undergrowth many 
a time and oft, and lashed her horse in a 
frenzy of delight as the thorny limbs swept 
by her. She was a beautiful woman as she 
rode with head bent back and hands low in 
the white moonlight. 

^ Jjc >ls Jjc Jjc 

Is there anything canine in a man that he 
should love the hand that beats him? Is 
there an occult principle that impels him 
to fawn and cringe for the word that hurts 
worse than a blow? Why should Forny 
woo the woman who had spoken him 
roughly? What was it that dragged him 
to her feet and held him there for her to 
spurn? He did not know. He was a plain 
man, young and, in his way, very strong. 
He was a hard rider and good shot, well 
liked, fair looking, tolerably off, of some in- 
fluence among the people of his methods 
of life. But he was putty under the soft 
fingers of the 1 8-year-old girl, and he hated 
himself for it. 


152 THAT WAY MADNESS LIES. 

Sometimes he hated her, too. He had a 
fashion when they were riding together, 
which they did often, of dropping back and 
muttering to himself. She generally rode 
straight on with an amused smile, but some- 
times turned round and goaded him to fresB 
madness. It never occurred to her free 
young spirit that she was treading upon 
thin-crusted quicksands. She could have 
told you readily what Lancelot or Sir Gal- 
ahad, Pelham or even Strathmore would 
have done in such and such situations, but 
of the possibilities of Jim Forny she knew 
nothing. 

She thought herself really a superior 
woman, and, so far as personal beauty and 
a kind of reckless decisiveness may go, she 
certainly was. When she hammered her 
boarding-school airs from old Ab’s piano 
and saw Forny sitting in delighted amaze, 
it never occurred to her that there were hid- 
den chords and strange, sweet symphonies 
within the instrument that were not for her 
fingers. If she said something witty, but 
very cruel, to the unfortunate young fellow 


THAT WAY MADNESS LIES. 153 


and her hearty father threw back his mighty 
shoulders and roared, she would laugh with 
genuine enjoyment, taking no heed of the 
strained, pained face. And he loved her. 
She led him a dog’s life, and he loved her 
like a dog. 

The people of Winn county will long re- 
member that Sunday morning of May, 
1883. The spring branding was over. It 
had been a good winter. There was plenty 
of water, and the grass grew as if inspired. 
No disease blighted the herds, and the 
hearts of the honest cattle-folk were happy. 

Old Ab stood in the door of his white 
frame house and slashed his boot 
with his whip. There was a frown 
on his face and he grumbled furi- 
ously under his breath. His horse, a 
powerful bluish animal, stood saddled, and 
a ragged Mexican held the bridle, indus- 
triously sucking a cigarette. Ab intended 
visiting some of his many camps, and Abla 
was gding to church. He was waiting to 
kiss her good-bye, never troubling his un- 
kempt head concerning her escort. He 


154 THAT WAY MADNESS LIES. 


took it for granted that Forny was the man. 
Between his daughter and the young stock- 
man lay so wide a gulf of wealth, education, 
breeding, everything that went to make a 
difference in his eyes, that a marital union 
between the two was unworthy of serious 
thought. That Forny did not coincide with 
him was evident. The young man rode up 
as the elder leaned heavily in the doorway 
and civilly doffed his wide hat, saying some- 
thing concerning the state of the range and 
bashfully dismounting at Ridgway’s surly 
invitation to come in. 

‘T’m goin’ to church,’’ he remarked, def- 
erentially, “an’ Ably’s goin’ too. Is she 
ready?” 

“Ready? H — 1, no!” said the father. 
“Never was ready in her life. When we 
uns Stan’s hyar tell we grows to the floor, 
she’ll come skippin’ ’long an’ pull us up — 
mebbe!” 

Forny sat down resignedly and waited. 
His face was pale, and bore a certain look 
of determination. He had been talking to 
himself as usual, and had sternly avowed his 


THAT WAY MADNESS LIES. 155 

purpose to put it to the touch that very day. 
“There ain’t no reason for her to say no,” 
he muttered, “but, d — n it! there ain’t no 
reason in her. Here’m I, healthy an’ good- 
natured an’ willin’ — a better man by a in- 
fernal sight than old Ab were at my age — 
an’ I’m goin’ to ask her. Ef she says no. 
I’ll — ” and here he had broken off and re- 
fused to entertain the possibility of her 
“No.” He heard a voice lilting overhead 
and a light foot pattering down the stairs. 
She was singing the tearful grind, “Silver 
Threads Among the Gold,” and as she saw 
Forny sitting on the steps she stopped in 
the door and with a musical laugh said: 
“ ‘Oh, my darling, you will be’ — left.” 

“Always am,” grunted her adorer, star- 
ing moodily at the red tops of the tall boots 
that adorned his legs. “Any one that 
wastes his time foolin’ roun’ you. Ably, is 
liable to git lef’ — an’ stay lef’,” he added. 

“Been a-waitin’ an’ stompin’ an’ chawin’ 
my bit fur two hours,” said old Ab. 
“Why’n name o’ sense, gal, don’t yer dress 
like yer mammy useter? When th’ ol’ 


156 THAT WAY MADNESS LIES. 

woman got ready to go anywheres she 
tuk’n dashed some water on her face, an' 
she were off." 

“Because," responded the daughter, “the 
girls at school wore something besides cold 
water." 

Those girls at school were unknown, but 
awing quantities to the old man and Forny. 
They were brought forward on all occasions 
and simpered and giggled them into utter 
submission. Ab kissed his daughter hur- 
riedly, looked humbly at Forny and rode 
away. The latter had sprung from the steps 
all awkwardness and delight, and stood 
ready to assist his mistress to the saddle. 
She placed one tiny foot in the hollow of 
his broad palm and with a bound was off 
and away, leaving him to follow. 

The very incarnation of cross purpose 
was in her. When he caught her after a 
lengthened chase, she would not ride with 
him. If he walked, she cantered; if he can- 
tered, she walked. She was first on one side 
of the road and then on the other, riding at 
full speed ahead and flicking with her whip 


THAT WAY MADNESS LIES. 157 

at the hanging leaves, coming behind him 
with a wild rush, giving him enough to do 
to sit his half-tamed horse. It seemed to 
him that she saw his purpose and was de- 
termined to balk it. 

It maddened him. The sun was hot, and 
its heat added to the fever in his veins. 
When he fumed till the sweat hung in drops ^ 
on his brow and he gored his horse savage- 
ly with the spur, she laughed at and left 
him; when he gave up all hope of speaking 
to her again, she returned to goad him, 
rally him on his ill humor, suggest improve- 
ments in his rough but picturesque dress, 
point out his inaccuracies of speech and 
faults of carriage, quote “our girls’^ to him 
until in his heart he cursed them and her 
and heaven. 

When they reached the little log hut 
called by courtesy “Siloam Church,” she 
was full fifty yards in advance, while he 
was plodding along quietly and wearily. 
She sprang lightly to the ground and en- 
tered alone. The people were used to the 
vagaries of the rich stockman's daughter, 


11 


15S THAT WAY MADNESS LIES. 

and knew all about the hard lines of Forny’s 
semi-courtship. Their grinning faces only 
affected him dully as he stumbled half blind- 
ly into the crowded room. He saw his 
sweetheart far to the front among a bevy 
of rustic belles, and knew that she had taken 
her position to bar his presence. He looked 
around and spying a vacant bench to the 
rear unconsciously took a seat on it. His 
hat lay unheeded on the floor as he sat still 
with head bowed on his breast. The drone 
of the congregation fell monotonously on 
his ear and through the single window 
sweet summer scents floated in. He recog- 
nized even then the exquisite odor of the 
huisache blanca blossom, and lifted his face 
to drink it in. In the dim light the old 
white-haired preacher rose and laboriously 
lined out “Near the Cross.’' The choral 
voices rose and Abla’s notes soared .sweet 
and strong high over them all. She sang 
as smoothly as though no tortured man 
sat near her, done almost to death by her 
wantonness. There was mockery in the 
sacred words which came so glibly from her 


THAT WAY MADNESS LIES. 159 

lips: ''Love and mercy found me.’’ There 
was no mercy in her heart; why should she 
speak it? A ray of sunlight came through 
a crack in the roof and fluttered boldly upon 
her brown hair. He could see the tresses 
turn to gold under its touch and mark the 
clear blood in her cheek. She was a physi- 
cal model of a woman; he a poor plain man, 
with nothing to recommend him save abili- 
ty to long and suffer. She was far out of 
his reach, he thought. 

But might not some other man pluck the 
ripened peach? With the thought, the 
blood surged to his cheek and he threw his 
head up like a startled tiger. He had not 
noted the flight of time, and the people 
were rising to go. They came trooping 
down the narrow space between the 
benches, stopping in knots and clusters to 
discuss the sermon and the news of the 
week. Abla was more dilatory than any. 
She had a word for every one, and was in- 
timate with none. Once Forny saw her 
give her hand to a young clerk in one of 
the two stores that Ridgville boasted. The 


l6o THAT WAY MADNESS LIES. 


boy, he was little more, held her ungloved 
hand unnecessarily long, the lover thought, 
and his brain throbbed to bursting. Then 
a great calm came over him, and he knew 
that something had been born in him that 
he could no more control than he could 
direct the winds. He waited for the girl 
quietly, and only half-smiled as she looked 
at him closely to gauge the extent of his 
suffering. She saw something in his wan, 
dark face — she could not have told what — 
that sobered her — she could not have told 
why. They mounted the horses prosaically 
enough, and went down the road silently 
together. The people stood watching 
them. The heat came down in shafts, and 
on the wide fields was an immense light. 
Three hundred yards from the church they 
entered the woods that stood solid and 
dark. The trees seemed to close behind 
them as a wall. 

When the sun was low, old Ab found 
them. Forny had fallen across her body, 
with his face in the sand. When they raised 
him up, the white glistening particles clung 


THAT WAY MADNESS LIES. l6l 

to his curly hair like diamond dust. Pinned 
to the bosom of her dress was a note in his 
labored hand. She had been to school, it 
said, and was too good for him. No other 
man should have her; so he had shot her. 

‘Tell old Ab,” so the note ran, “I hated 
to do it. She was not a good girl, but she 
was his to the last. I did not even kiss her 
after she was dead»’^ 


u 


TRISTAM AND ISEULT. 


James Marolle was one of those unfortu- 
nate men whom everybody likes. He had 
also a powerful enemy in the shape of him- 
self. He was a Westerner, and consequent- 
ly free-hearted and free-spoken. It was 
never charged that he had one wife in Nat- 
chez-under-the-Hill and another one up in 
Pike, but events proved that he was not any^ 
too good to have had them. He was a 
large, fleshy young fellow, with an oiled 
tongue and fresh-colored face. He had a 
way of swinging back when he walked and 
standing with legs far apart when he talked, 
which gave the idea that he was a man of 
wealth and influence. 

He came to Texas in i88i, and moved 
in on Jim Ned creek. He announced that 
he had come to stay, and as he seemed able 
and willing to pay his way, everybody was 
glad to see him. He bought a ranch and 
162 


TRISTAM AND ISEULT. 163 

went in for improved stock, with a priceless 
bull and unlimited confidence. His range 
and intentions were good; his experience 
slight. As he was willing to drink, always 
anxious to pay for it, always in the best of 
humors, seemingly at peace with himself 
and the world — as it was locally and fre- 
quently expressed, ‘^always just the same,” 
every one wished him well. 

Each man has his weakness, and Ma- 
rolle's was heinous. Society on the Jim 
Ned was limited in its scope and its needs, 
and he loved the women. Not many of 
them were in the country at that time, and 
what few there were commanded a pre- 
mium. Three of the girls were able to play 
the piano, when they could find one, and 
they made the most of the accomplishment. 
Another weakly tinkled a cracked guitar, 
swung to her neck by a blue ribbon and 
warbled the ‘‘Yellow Rose of Texas.” Prob- 
ably Marolle had been used to better things, 
but he did not show it. He went ahead, 
pottered at his fancy breeding, attended the 
neighborhood dances, drank whisky in 
142 


i 64 tristam and iseult. 

Jonesboro, and altogether had an unlimited 
bank account with the future upon which 
he drew liberally. 

Once in December, 1882, when it was 
bitter cold and the cattle were dropping by 
hundreds on the ranges, old man Erath, 
who lived on the Espia and was blessed 
with the piano-playing girls, consented to 
give a dance. It was to be very swell, and 
two Mexican riders notified the country- 
side ten days in advance. In an emergency 
Jones county could turn out a fair crowd 
of suffragans, and everybody intended to be 
there. Erath’s one-story house squatted 
in the middle of the prairie, like a duck on 
a pond, and in the summer time was a fair 
place enough, surrounded by miles of wav- 
ing grass and cooled by purest breezes, but 
when the norther howled down and the 
black earth lay hard under the hoof-beats, 
it was neither beautiful nor comfortable. 

Visitors dismounted, and trusting their 
horses to seek the southern side of tEe 
House and stay there, entered. The long 
room was filled. A fire blazed under the 


TRISTAM AND ISEULT. 165 

mud chimney at one end, and near it sat 
the solitary fiddler, already half-seas over. 
The women, fallow and pinched-looking for 
the most part, ranged along one wall, 
squirming uneasily on the hard-bottom 
chairs, and patting their feet impatiently 
while the orchestra mended one of his 
strings. Nearly all were married, and their 
life-mates clustered on the opposite side, 
chewing and spitting and talking capital 
and cattle. Marolle was there, too — on 
the women's side — talking to black-eyed 
Mrs. Wilgot, a smooth-faced little woman, 
handsome and with a bold look. 

The dancing was only the old-fashioned 
quadrille. In those days the lascivious waltz 
would have been suppressed. The band, 
in addition to furnishing the music, called 
the figures, acted as master of ceremonies, 
and, dropping his bow on occasion, drank 
with any one who would ask him. Marolle 
had out Mrs. Wilgot, and when the set 
was over sat by her. He had her out again, 
and sat by her. The husband was there, an 
ugly man enough. He was morose and a 


i66 TRISTAM AND ISEULT. 

drinker, very poor and very little liked in 
Jones county — quiet, unassuming, unsocial 
and dangerous. He took things coolly 
enough, however, and, beyond scowling at 
Marolle once or twice, said and did noth- 
ing. There was a pile of arms in one corner, 
deposited by the guests who considered 
it a matter of honor to divest themselves 
o( weapons immediately upon entering. 
Wilgot had been standing with his back to 
the wall and edging along it all night. He 
had approached within a dozen feet of the 
rifles and had a dogged look on his face 
when daylight came in at the window and 
the dance broke up. Marolle took Mrs. 
Wilgot to her horse and helped her to the 
saddle, holding her foot long in doing so. 
Wilgot turned and looked at him as they 
rode away. 

A week afterward Marolle bought a 
buggy and slashing team of gray horses. 
It was a new thing to the Tom Neddites 
and excited merriment. Those people re- 
garded the purchase as a mixture of ef- 
feminacy and dandyism. Marolle merely 


TRISTAM AND ISEULT. 167 

said, with one of his amused chuckles, that 
he had got it with a purpose and intended 
to use it. He could be seen frequently driv- 
ing along the hard prairie roads in the cold 
nights, with his cigar alight and always in 
the neighborhood of Wilgot’s little ranch. 
People began to talk, but Marolle was a 
light-hearted fellow with a ready smile and 
word. The women would not blame him, 
while the men shook their tousled heads. 
Mrs. Wilgot came to town in the springtime 
and imprudently spent a good deal of 
money. She dressed very well indeed, and 
now that she had opportunity, proved her- 
self a woman of taste, looking younger and 
handsomer than the people had ever seen 
her. She was unmercifully discussed at the 
camp-meetings, at church on Sundays, and 
at the singing-school on Wednesday nights, 
but as yet there had been no esclandre, and 
the women met and kissed her as usual. 

When the summer came and the spring 
branding was over and Marolle had pro- 
nounced his year’s breeding operations a 
success, the young clerks and lawyers who 


i68 


TRISTAM AND ISEULT. 


formed the eligible population of Jones- 
boro concocted a ‘^fish-fry/’ to take place 
on the banks of the Jim Ned, five miles be- 
low town. Preparation for the occasion 
brought out a kind of rivalry between the 
city and country belles. For two weeks the 
little stores of the place were filled with 
shoppers doing their best to fit themselves 
out, regardless of their hard-working, hard- 
riding fathers and husbands. Mrs. Wilgot 
was in the thick of it, buying everything 
that woman could possibly need, laughing 
affably, and desperately bent on eclipsing 
the county. Marolle followed her about in 
a big tamed-animal fashion, carrying her 
bundles and waving away any male assist- 
ance whatsoever. Wilgot staid at home, 
mended his saddle, rode after the steers and 
waited on his two small children. 

Two days before the piscatorial festivi- 
ties, Mrs. Wilgot informed female acquaint- 
ances — friends she had none — that her hus- 
band had rheumatism, and would not at- 
tend. 

‘Wou won’t miss him,” hazarded one. 


TRISTAM AND ISEULT. 


169 


'‘Oh, yes I shall,” said the charming 
young frontier wife. “But for Mr. Mar- 
olle’s kindness in offering to drive me over, 
I don’t know what I should have done.” 

She came when the crowd was assembled 
— Marolle with her, of course. It was 
learned that he had driven to the ranch, and 
the woman had taken her seat by him with- 
out a word to her husband or children. Wil- 
got said nothing. As for Marolle, he never 
considered it necessary to apologize to any- 
body. He did not ask such things himself; 
why should others expect it of him? And 
yet he might, in his light, good nature, have 
stopped to think of the home he was ruin- 
ing. In the common prudence of a sane 
man, he might have stopped to think how 
it was all going to end. But Marolle sel- 
dom thought of anything beyond the mo- 
ment. 

He and his companion drove up to the 
grounds with a rush and clatter. He was 
holding his elbows squarely, had a silver- 
mounted whip in his left hand — he was a 
left-handed man — and the fancy team was 


170 TRISTAM AND ISEULT. 

smoking. He threw down the reins and 
sprang from his buggy, carefully assisting 
Mrs. Wilgot to alight. They wandered off 
shortly with rod and line, and were seen 
no more till dusk, when they came up just 
in time to see the last dance in the woods. 
The woman looked pale and flurried, and 
her hand trembled as she raised a dipper of 
water to her lips. 

It was a cool, pleasant night. The trees 
stood around them like giant sentinels in 
the gloom, their mossy beards swinging in 
the slow evening wind. The laughter had 
ceased and the girls were moving silently 
about searching for wraps and lost escorts. 
The horses in the shadows were black and 
shapeless forms, and the clink of stirrup 
against stirrup sounded as they shifted rest- 
lessly. The cicadas iterated monotonously, 
and an owl flapped among the branches and 
steered his way with a certain and sweep- 
ing motion. The running waters of the 
creek had an elfish undertone in the still 
dimness, the weeds on the bank stood 
drooping and pensive, and the rays of the 


TRISTAM AND ISEULT. 171 

fast-rising moon cast queer lengths and 
shadows among the swaying limbs. There 
was a sense of isolation on the party as they 
stood silenced before the start. 

‘‘Time to be off/' said Leggett. “Let me 
swing you up, Miss Mollie.” 

Marolle had driven up, and with Mrs. 
Wilgot he rolled away slowly. The spell 
was broken. The people mounted and 
moved all together, chattering and laugh- 
ing loudly. 

Suddenly, fifty yards in advance,, just 
around the bend in the road where the tall 
cottonwood cast a solid black shadow 
across it as it lay white and glistening be- 
fore them, two heavy reports boomed out, 
and a second later a shorter and sharper 
one. They heard the team plunge with a 
shrill neigh, and a crash as the buggy struck 
the trees and shattered. Then came the 
long roll of hoofs down the road, and still- 
ness. The young men and women in a 
gallop pressed for the bend' that hid a 
tragedy. There were two — three — dark 


172 TRISTAM AND ISEULT. 

objects lying in the pale sand. They turned 
them over and looked at the still faces. 

And no man said a word, for they had 
all expected it, and the girls and women 
sobbed hysterically, and one of them 
stepped forward and shudderingly pulled 
down the hem of a dress which had been 
raised in the fall. They were quite dead — 
the seducer, the female fool, the suicide. 

Marolle had been killed instantly. His 
face had a half-merry, half-pleading look, 
and his left hand held a piece of purple 
ribbon. The woman’s features were dis- 
torted by fright, pain, horror, what not? 
They were very dreadful to look upon. 
Across her breast, covered by its newly- 
purchased silk, lay a splinter from the riven 
vehicle. Wilgot was straightened out com- 
posedly like a man who had done his work 
well and was satisfied. He lay on his shot- 
gun, the weapon of murder; a small pistol, 
the weapon of suicide, was near him. He 
was clad roughly, the stockman’s wide hat 
still resting upon his grizzled head, but 
lying dead in the moonlight he had a name- 


TRISTAM AND ISEULT. 


173 


less dignity that was not his in life. Per- 
haps his wrongs, that had been the death of 
him, had made a man of him. 

His little children were asleep when the 
ranch was reached. They waked and asked 
for their father; for their mother they had 
no word. 


12 


TOLD BY THE DEPUTY SHERIFF. 


The night was very dark, and the cracks 
in the little cabin, through which a cat 
might have been thrown without touching 
a hair, gave free ingress and egress to that 
nastiest of Texan products, a norther. 
Through the rifts in the roof the stars 
blinked cheerily, and occasionally light 
clouds drifted by them, like flakes of wool 
hurled over the house top. There was a 
big blaze in the mud-daubed fireplace and 
the flames flared in the swirling draughts. 
Three tin cups and a plug of tobacco rested 
on the pine table; a beneficent jug, with a 
corn cob stopper stood stoutly on the 
hearth; the three clay pipes alight showed 
redly in the half dark. 

The Deputy Sheriff sat with his chair 
tilted against the wall and his knees tucked 
under his chin. He was a small dark 
young fellow, with black bright eyes and 
174 


TOLD BY THE DEPUTY SHERIFF. 175 

a loosely hung jaw. His pipe was held 
stiffly in one hand and treated with the re- 
spect due to a solace, but his other hand 
waved solemnly up and down or flickered 
excitedly as he told his tale. No one had 
offered him any inducement to do so, but 
he had been silent perforce while Robinson 
gave us a song and it worried him. 

“When I was in Jeff Davis county,’’ he 
prefaced in his quick eager way, “I worked 
for as game a man and good a Sheriff as 
the State can show. I got a fair whack 
on the office and I made lots of money. I 
rode with the girls and I attended meeting 
regular. I was looked on as a exemplary 
young feller, and when the quarterly bap- 
tizin’s come round the sisters all looked to 
see me ducked. I got away from the sky 
pilots by the skin of my teeth. If I had 
staid there they would have foreclosed a 
mortgage on my young soul, but I moved 
out. I don’t mind sayin’ I had to. 

“It was a Sunday evenin’ and I had gone 
up to the arbor that did duty for a church 
with my very best girl. There was a pro- 


. 176 TOLD BY THE DEPUTY SHERIFF. 

tracted meetin’ goin’ on and had been for 
a week. There was a high state of relig- 
ious excitement in the town, and it was as 
much as a man’s life was worth to say 'durn’ 
out loud. My boss was on the front bench 
with a holiness smile on his face and two 
guns in his pants. We took a back seat, 
me and my girl did, for we did not want to 
catch the preacher’s eye and call down 
buckets of damnation on our heads. They 
lined out ‘The Dyin’ Thief Rejoiced to 
See,’ and we sailed in, me and my girl did. 
I saw a young feller ride up to the arbor 
and hitch. He straddled up to the Sheriff 
with his legs wide open and wet with sweat. 
He went down into his shirt, reached out 
a long piece of paper and give it to the 
Sheriff. The boss got up, looked around at 
me and started out to the office. I fol- 
lowed him straight. When we got there 
he turned to me, my boss did, and he says: 

“ ‘You get two men and go up on Pen- 
dencia creek and get that John Chisolm 
and bring him down here and lock him up. 
I’ve got a warrant here for his arrest for 


TOLD BY THE DEPUTY SHERIFF. 177 

murder committed more’n five year ago, 
and you hustle/ 

''Chisolm was a mighty bad man. He 
was a thief by nature and a murderer from 
habit. I asked him once what made him 
kill so many men and he said he liked to 
change ghosts. He was a slashin’ six-foot 
feller with big blue eyes and yellow hair. 
He was a able rider and knew the brush 
better’n anybody. He was knowed to be a 
shootist and there werenh nobody hanker- 
in’ for the job of bringin’ him in. 

"It was 3 o’clock in the evenin’ and time 
was gettin’ short. Chisolm lived fifteen 
miles west of town, straight across the 
prairie, ’bout a mile and a half to the left 
of the old Stockton trail. I tackled one 
man and tackled another and they was all 
busy. I got mad and had just made up my 
mind to go up to the Pendencia and shoot 
Chisolm and say he tried to get away, when 
Blaze Hooper allowed he was willin’ to ride 
and was lookin’ for fun, and we loped out 
of town together. We went by the arbor 
and I glanced at Paulina Gibbs and got 
12 


lyS TOLD BY THE DEPUTY SHERIFF. 

ready to smile. I see Jeems Wilson settin’ 
by her and yowlin’ from the same book and 
I dug my spurs into old Paint till he bel- 
lered. 

‘‘We fetched Chisolm’s house just a little 
before sundown. The ol’ man and ol’ wo- 
man was at home, but John weren’t no- 
wheres around. I asked for him and his 
mother says as how he were off runnin’ cat- 
tle and wouldn’t be back for a week. I 
felt a mind to tell her she was assault and 
batterin’ the truth when I heard hoofs down 
the road and Chisolm come trottin’ ’round 
the bend. When he see me he kinder 
straightened up in his saddle and his arm 
dropped toward the Winchester swung to 
his pommel. He were a handy man. He 
come along, however, and when he rid up I 
showed him the warrant and Blaze sidled 
up with his six-shooter, and we had him. 

“ ‘Look ahere,’ says he, ‘you folks down 
to the Court House has been tryin’ to lay 
me out, and I ain’t goin’ to trust myself 
’mongst no such lot less’n I carry my 
friends here,’ and he patted his weapons. 


TOLD BY THE DEPUTY SHERIFF. 179 

“I told him as how prisoners weren’t gen- 
erally allowed to carry arms. ‘Howsom- 
ever, John/ says I, ‘I don’t think you want- 
er shoot me, and if you smell anything dead 
up the creek, you’re welcome to your guns.’ 

''John he turned and give the ol’ man 
some directions ’bout what he wanted done 
with stock. His oT mother come runnin’ 
out and caught hold of his leg and patted 
it, but he kinder jerked it loose and we rode 
off. The last I see of that ol’ woman she 
were standin’ in the middle of the road, 
shadin’ her eyes with her hand and lookin’ 
after us. Two or three chickens was peck- 
in’ round and a lazy good-for-nothin’ 
ranch dog begun barkin’ and cavortin’ 
’bout the door. 

"That Pendencia is a pretty big settle- 
ment and they was all rustlers. We had to 
pass through the middle of it and Chisolm 
stopped at first at one house and then at 
another and whispered to the men inside. 
I didn’t half like the looks of it. It was 
gettin’ late and I lit out into a hard ride. 
We went down the big plain road, Chisolm 


l8o TOLD BY THE DEPUTY SHERIFF. 

on my left and Hooper ’bout ten paces In 
front. We was all ridin’ pretty good horses. 
When we had put some five mile behind us 
Chisolm sorter plucked up spirits and we 
begin to sing and swap lies. 

noticed that he was kinder nervous 
and kept squintin’ ahead of him and at the 
bushes on each side of the road, but I didn’t 
let it bother me any. We went straight 
ahead and when we reached Pena creek five 
mile from town we stopped and give our 
horses a restin’ spell. When they had 
drunk enough we started on. As we 
reached the top of the divide and headed 
down the long slope Chisolm sung out, 
'Now make ’em pick up four feet where 
they put down two,’ and we went clatterin’ 
down the grade. The road on each hand 
was lined so thick with mesquite that it 
worried the rabbits to squeeze through it. 
The cactus grew tall and rank among it, 
reaching half way to its top. It was a 
cloudy night, no moon, and a heavy wind 
was blowin’ square in our faces. 

" T’m hungry,’ says Chisolm. 


TOLD BY THE DEPUTY SHERIFF. l8l 


^All right/ says I, Vhen we get to town 
we’ll go to Burr’s store and get some cove 
oysters, pepper-vinegar and crackers.’ They 
ain’t bad to take. 

‘Xeanin’ over in his saddle, Chisolm 
turned to me and says he: ‘You know that 
I’ve been what they call a bad man. I’ve 
killed, and as for cattle stealin’ I’ve seen 
things knocked, but I never did half of 
what was laid to me. Every hoof and horn 
missed in this country was charged to me.’ 

“ T know it,’ says 1. ‘You ain’t half as 
bad a man as people say; not half as bad as 
you’d like to make out.’ 

“Somehow there was a queer feelin’ come 
over me. I didn’t know what it was, but I 
turned and looked at Chisolm. We was 
within three miles of town and had settled 
down to a jogtrot. He was leanin’ forward 
in his saddle with his hands in front of him, 
lookin’ down at ’em. Blaze was moseyin’ 
along in front, one leg crossed over his 
pommel and singin’ under his breath. It 
was a sandy road, the hoofs made no noise 
and the words come back to me: 


i 82 told by the deputy sheriff. 

Amazin’ Grace! How sweet th’ soun’ 
Thet saved a wretch like me! 

I once was lost, but now I’m foun’, 

Was boun’ but now I’m free. 

‘The wind come in our faces a-zip-zip- 
pin’ and the tough mesquite bent and sung 
under its stroke. 

“ ‘Halt! D n you, hold up there!’ 

“I looked behind and the road were full 
of men and tramplin’ horses. Men think 
quick in them kind of places. I didn’t 
know whether they was friends of Chis- 
olm’s come to rescue him, or people bent 
on killin’ him. I was willin’ to give him a 
dog’s show and I wheeled my horse acrost 
the road, intendin’ to let ’em ride over me 
and give him a chance to get clear. They 
had broad hats on, and handkerchiefs tied 
over their faces with holes cut in ’em to see 
through. 

“Chisolm did not try to run. He stopped 
his horse just as I did. I doij’t think his 
hand ever got to his gun. He just had no 
time to do nothin’. The head man on a 
big white horse passed me at full speed and 


TOLD BY THE DEPUTY SHERIFF. 183 

as he jerked him to his haunches threw his 
pistol down on Chisolm at three feet dis- 
tance and pulled the trigger. John had 
turned to yell at him and the bullet struck 
him fair in the mouth. It passed through 
and broke his neck at the base of the skull. 
He went back sideways from his saddle, a 
dead man. I had jerked my horse to the 
side of the road and they trampled round 
him firin’ down at him. It went through 
me to see ’em butcherin’ a poor harmless 
corpse and I hollered at ’em. With a rush 
a whole gang made for me. Jesus how ol’ 
Paint hummed along! I went down the 
side of the road twenty yards in advance, 
maybe, and them firin’ at me every jump. 
The prickly pears flew right and left, struck 
by the flyin’ hoofs of my horse. They give 
it up in about three hundred yards and I 
circled through the brush and went down 
to town. 

“Blaze had lit out when the murder be- 
gun and when I got there the town was 
crazy. He rushed down to the arbor 
where the night meetin’ was goin’ on and 


i84 told by the DEPUTY SHERIFF. 

yelled that Chisolm and me was both killed. 
When he last see me, says Blaze, I was sur- 
rounded by a wall of fire, but doin’ my best. 
The Sheriff jumped up and summoned a 
posse. The women and girls screamed 
and half of ’em fainted and fell under the 
benches. Paulina’s mother got down on 
her knees and prayed the Lord to be good 
to my sinful soul. Paulina she shook that 
lopsided beau of hers and talked about 
goin’ down to the stores the first thing in 
the mornin’ and buyin’ mournin’. 

“We got a waggin and about one hun- 
dred of us went out after Chisolm’s body. 
We found him lyin’ stiff acrost the road. 
He were a sight to see. He had been killed 
so dead and went so clear of the saddle that 
his big white hat never fell off. He was 
lyin’ there with it on the back of his head, 
just as he used to wear it, his blue eyes wide 
open and starin’ at the stars where his soul 
by that time was wanderin’ around. He 
had been shot all to pieces. A inventory 
of his wounds would have made a book. 
We took him to town and sat up with him 


TOLD BY THE DEPUTY SHERIFF. 185 

that night, and when the jury started in on 
him next day they put in three hours of 
awful good time and never did get the holes 
straightened out. 

'We started a messenger in the mornin’ 
to tell his folks that he were dead, but they 
knowed it when the man got there. His 
horse come up to his ranch a little after day- 
light with the gun still in the saddle scab- 
bard. 

"Along about ii o^clock there come 
ridin’ into town a procession of Pendencia 
residents headed by Chisolm’s father and 
mother. They druv up to the jacal where 
the body was layin’ and the ol’ lady hopped 
from the waggin and rushed in. Then 
there come from her withered breast such 
a wail as I never heard before. She threw 
herself on the corpse that lay long and 
straight before her, and cried: 

" 'Oh, John! John! Are you gone? Will 
I never hear your sweet voice no more? 
The little boy I raised, that hung to my 
breast, that could ride and rope so good 
when he were just a little fellow! Oh, Je- 


l86 TOLD BY THE DEPUTY SHERIFF. 

sus, he’s gone! They murdered him! They 
killed my boy! You killed my boy! You 
did it!’ 

“In her madness she shook her skinny 
fingers in my face. To this day that ol’ 
woman and man and the whole Pendencia 
tribe believe that I murdered John while 
ridin’ by his side ; that I went up there with 
a bogus warrant, arrested him, took him 
down the road and shot two or three hun- 
dred holes in him. They accused Blaze 
Hooper of bein’ my accomplice — him that 
melted from sight like a free lunch before a 
tramp printer. He’s livin’ there yet, I be- 
lieve, but owin’ to the dislike the Pendencia 
people had for me I took up my bed and 
skipped. When they planted Chisolm in 
the little cemetery that contained 105 
graves, and only three of the occupants had 
died a natural death, they put him into a 
hole within two feet of a young man he had 
shot two or three years before. I recol- 
lect that when they got the proper distance 
down the crumblin’ edge of a coffin was 
exposed. 


TOLD BY THE DEPUTY SHERIFF. 187 

‘^Kick that jug over this way. rm goin” 
to drink to the memory of the Chisolm cor- 
oner’s jury. There was six of ’em — every 
one of ’em a good horse-sense man. This 
was their verdict: 

‘Come to his death from too many of 
other folks’ cattle and about forty Winches- 
ters in the hands of participants unknown 
to us, the jury.’ ” 


THE PAINT HORSE OF SEVEN 
COLORS. 


This is all about the Paint Horse of 
Seven Colors. That is, it is all I know 
about him. I tell the tale as it was told to 
me by Juan Gregorio Trinidad Antonio 
Jesus Maria Pablo Jacobo Garza, Alcalde 
of the village of Santa Maria de los Dolores 
and Captain of the Sheep Shearers, down 
by the Rio Grande. 

It was a night late in September. A soft 
wind crooned over leagues of chaparral. 
Giant cacti reared misshapen forms in the 
darkness. Overhead the sky was blue 
black and studded with blazing stars. Near 
by was the sheep pen built of crooked logs 
and crowded with sheep waiting for the 
morrow’s clipping. A fire built of mesquite 
branches flickered lightly and the pungent 
smell of its smoke was on the air. A huge | 
pot of coffee simmered on the coals. I 


THE PAINT HORSE. 189 

The tortillas and ‘‘cabritas” — goat’s flesh 
stewed with red pepper — had been eaten 
and the tin dishes thrown into a box for the 
night. Juan Gregorio and all the rest of it 
was squatted near the fire, for the Texan 
nights at this time of year are chill. Be- 
tween his brown fingers he held a cigarette 
of black tobacco rolled in a corn-shuck. 
Near him were a dozen companions, all 
squatted, all smoking, all intently listening. 
The Mexicans of the lower classes are rich 
in folk-lore and this is the time when they 
tell their stories. All of the shearers had 
heard the tale many times, but they were 
eager to hear it again. Repetition does 
not weary a Mexican. 

“The horse,” said Juan Gregorio, “was 
black, white, bay, gray, sorrel, roan and 
blue. He was a stallion and as tall as a tall 
man. I do not know where he was born. 
No man knows that. I think it was some- 
where in the Santa Rosa mountains. When 
he was a young horse he came down to the 
plains. That was long ago — so long ago,” 


13 


THE PAINT HORSE 


190 

and Juan Gregorio held his hands wide 
apart to indicate great distance. 

‘^He was very beautiful and swift — oh, so 
swift! He devoured the distances. There 
was never another horse like him. His tail, 
which was black, swept the ground. His 
mane was white as snow and it fell nearly 
to his knees. He could trot faster than a 
common horse can run and he ran almost 
as fast as the blue quail flies. Early in the 
morning he would get his breakfast of sweet 
mesquite grass on the Arroya Pena and at 
noon time he would shade himself beneath 
the pecan trees that grow along the Nueces 
river. That is 150 miles,’’ said Juan Gre- 
gorio, gravely. 

^^Si!” said all of his companions. 

^'El Caballo Pinto de los Sierte Colores,” 
the tale-teller went on, ‘Tad no herd. He 
lived by himself. Not any of the other 
horses could keep up with him, you see. 
When he traveled he went like the wind. 
He was first with one group of mares and 
then with another, but he did not stay with 
any of them long. He was very brave and 


OF SEVEN COLORS. IQI 

when he first came down from the moun- 
tains he whipped all of the stallions of the 
plains. He slew the large black stallion 
that headed the herd near Espentosa lake 
and the bay and the gray stallions that were 
kings of the horse country soutE of the Sab- 
inal canyon. His fame went among the 
mustangs all through old Mexico and New 
Mexico and about the headwaters of the 
Pecos. The ranges were his from the Rio 
Grande forks to the salt marshes above 
Matamoras. He was generous and when 
he had defeated a stallion he gave him 
back his mares. They all owned him as 
master, and when the roll of his hoofs was 
heard coming down the wind, and afar off 
they saw him a rushing speck upon the 
prairie, the mares and colts herded together 
to welcome him and the stallion that led 
them went in amongst them humble as 
they. The eyes of the Paint Horse seemed 
to flash fire. His mane tossed about him in 
waves of silvery hair. His black tail floated 
on the wind like a banner. He carried his 
head high and his ears pointed forward. 


192 


THE PAINT HORSE 


His ears were bright bay. Ai ! he was beau- 
tiful ! 

'‘Because the Paint Horse would not stay 
long with a herd and because he was swift 
like the wind, no one could catch him. 
Many tried, but always his shrill neigh rang 
out and he flashed away over the level 
prairie like a meteor. No man could lasso 
him, and if he had been lassoed no man 
could have held him. He would not walk 
into the traps that were dug for him near 
the water holes. His red nostrils scented 
all scents upon the breeze and no one could 
approach him to shoot him through the up- 
per part of his massive neck and stun him. 
All hunters knew his trail, for his hoofs were 
smaller than those of a pony and his stride 
was a yard longer than that of the tallest 
stallion. Many followed the trail, but al- 
ways they saw the Paint Horse upon an em- 
inence watching them. Always he tossed 
his small head in air and neighed defiance 
and was away with a mighty bound, higher 
and farther and more graceful than the 
bound of the antelope. 


OF SEVEN COLORS. 


193 


all the hunters who hunted the Paint 
Horse none so longed for him as Juan Cas- 
tro longed. Juan Castro was a brigand 
who had been driven from his home ranch 
by the rich Spaniards. He fought them 
and robbed them. Some of the money he 
took from them he gave to his men, some 
he gave to the church and some he gave to 
the poor. Juan Castro swore that he would 
be a homeless man until the Spaniards were 
driven from Mexico. When, his face hid- 
den by his serape, he went to early mass in 
the villages, he always renewed his vow to 
fight for his country until the Lord took 
his soul into His own keeping. The good 
fathers knew and loved Juan Castro and 
they gave him absolution for the Spaniards 
he killed. Once he was captured in a strong 
fight near Lerdo. They put him in prison 
and were to shoot him when the day broke. 
He dug his way through the adobe walls 
of the jail with a small dagger he had hid- 
den in his hair, for his hair was long like a 
woman’s. He longed for the Paint Horse 
because he knew that once on the back of 

13 


194 the paint horse 

that mighty steed he would be safe from all 
his foes. 

‘This is the way that Juan Castro caught 
the King of the Mustang Herds: He 
owned a beautiful mare and he called her 
Bonita. She was all of an iron gray and 
her skin shone like satin. She would eat 
sugar from his hand and come when he 
called. At night she would lie upon the 
prairie while he pillowed his head upon her 
neck. If danger drew near she would 
awake him and stand ready to fly with him. 
He loved her next to Juanita Garcia, who 
was a Spanish girl, the daughter of a great 
Don whose cattle roamed in the hills near 
Saltillo. The Spanish girl loved him, but 
it was by her kindred that he was taken and 
condemned to die: 

“One time Juan Castro mounted his 
horse and led Bonita by a halter. He took 
her to the rolling prairie near Valenzuela 
and hid himself near by, deep in a hollow 
that was overgrown with huisache. By 
and by he heard the roll of the Paint 
Horse’s hoofs and he appeared upon a 


OF SEVEN COLORS. 


195 


ridge, coming like the wind. He saw the 
sheen of Bonita’s coat gleaming in the sun 
and galloped gayly to her. He had never 
seen so beautiful a mare. He did not know 
that his mighty heart was near to its un-. 
doing, that the days of his freedom and 
power were close to their end, but it was so. 
Juan Castro lay hidden all of the day while 
the Paint Horse played near Bonita and 
told her in a thousand ways that he loved 
her. The mare of iron gray permitted him 
to rub his soft muzzle along her neck and 
leaned her head against his deep side. The 
Paint Horse wooed her as in all his fiery 
life he had not wooed. 

‘Then Castro rose and called Bonita to 
him. She came gladly. The Paint Horse 
wheeled with a snort of terror and bounded 
away. He flashed like the light across the 
prairie, but a half-mile away paused and 
looked back. Bonita was slowly following 
her master. Short was his struggle.” 

At this point Juan Gregorio stopped and 
proceeded slowly to roll another cigarette. 
His audience stared at him hungrily. He 


196 THE PAINT HORSE 

selected carefully a corn-shuck of proper 
thinness and meditatively dropped tobacco 
into it. His usually deft fingers seemed 
clumsy and he was a long time in getting it 
to his liking. Raising a burning branch he 
touched it to the end of his cigarette, in- 
haled a deep breath of the smoke, expelled 
it slowly, looked around him with conscious 
power and resumed: 

*Xove conquered the wild horse that not 
skill nor brute force nor swiftness had been 
able to conquer. He followed Castro and 
the mare. He swept around them in wide 
circles. Sometimes he darted away like a 
frightened bird, but always he returned. 
When Castro reached his camp the Paint 
Horse was following closely behind. He 
stood within the outer circle of the firelight 
and watched the mare who was tethered to 
a tree. Then he came close up and allowed 
Castro to put his hand upon him. It was 
the first time that the fingers of man had 
touched his glossy coat and a shiver ran 
through him when he felt it. It was long 
before he yielded completely to dominion. 


OF SEVEN COLORS. 


197 


There was war when his master first en- 
deavored to put the bit between his teeth. 
He did not like the taste of the hard steel 
which hurt his mouth. Always Castro was 
kind. More than once he broke away and 
went to the prairie, but always he returned 
for love of Bonita. If he became violent, 
Castro had only to take the mare to another 
camp and hide her, when the great horse 
would sicken with sorrow. He learned 
that when he was tractable he was rewarded 
by Bonita’s company. When his old law- 
less spirit got the better of him he was pun- 
ished by her absence. There could be no 
punishment like that to the Paint Horse of 
Seven Colors. In time he learned to love 
his master for himself. He was friend, ser- 
vant and watch dog. When the Paint 
Horse was with him no foeman could ap- 
proach the sleeping brigand. He could 
smell a man at the distance of half a mile. 
He could hear a footfall upon the soft grass 
a hundred yards away. When he slept in 
the night the rustle of a twig would awake 
him. With the brigand upon his back he 


198 


THE PAINT HORSE 


would cover three hundred miles in the 
course of a day. His walk, trot and gallop 
were all as easy as a rocking chair. He did 
not know fatigue. He would go for twen- 
ty-four hours without water and, if neces- 
sity pressed, three days without stopping 
for food. The Spanish began to look upon 
Castro as a demon. He was seen at places 
leagues apart on the same morning. In 
combat he was swift to strike and swifter 
to flee. With his men he captured and 
robbed a Spanish trade train near Torreon 
and on the evening of that day single- 
handed fought and slew the captain of the 
garrison at Monterey, two hundred miles 
away. The thunder of the hoofs of the 
Paint Horse became as much of a terror to 
the Spanish soldiery as formerly they had 
been an incentive to his pursuers. Castro 
laughed and was happy and the great stal- 
lion was happy in Bonita’s love.” 

Juan Gregorio here paused and took out 
his corn-shucks for another cigarette, but 
his hearers knew what was coming and 
whispered impatiently, ''Andele! Andele!” 


OF SEVEN COLORS. IQQ 

which is Mexican for “Hurry! Hurry!” so 
he resumed: 

“One night Juan Castro, mounted on the 
Paint Horse and leading Bonita, climbed 
the steep and rocky pathway which led to 
the hacienda of Don Manuel Garcia. Ju- 
anita, her reboso wound about her head, 
waited for him near the great corral. The 
night was moonless, but the stars were shin- 
ing clearly. The girl could see the forms 
of her lover and his horses as they carne up 
the hillside. Her father and his men were 
drinking in the long low dining room of the 
house, only a few yards away. Her heart 
beat fast. Castro reached her, swung him- 
self clear of the great stallion and lifted her 
to the saddle upon Bonita's back. At that 
moment one of the retainers came to the 
door for a breath of air. He was drunk, 
but not too drunk to see. 

“‘Air he called. ‘Hola! Hola! Hola! 
Hola! The donna and a lover! Ai!' 

“Fifty men sprang from the table and 
rushed to the door. Castro at a bound 
leaped upon his giant steed and headed him 


200 


THE PAINT HORSE 


down the path. Bonita swung in behind 
him and they were off at racing speed. 
Five minutes later Don Manuel and his 
men were tearing along in pursuit. Far 
below them they could see the sparks smit 
from the stones by the flying hoofs. It was 
a long chase in the night. At first the pur- 
suers did not gain, but their horses were 
good and soon they began to creep up. 
The strength of a lasso is only that of its 
weakest strand, and Bonita was a tender 
mare. She was speedy, too, but not with 
the speed of the Paint Horse and she did 
not have his endurance. She began to tire. 
The father and his men did not fire for fear 
of killing the girl. They crept up within 
fifty yards. The breath of Bonita came 
sobbingly. Then Castro, who was bear- 
ing back hard upon the Paint Horse’s bit, 
held him still more tightly and ranged by 
Bonita’s side. His arm went around the 
girl’s waist. The next moment, with her 
head on his bosom, she was resting upon 
the broad pommel of the bandit’s saddle. 


OF SEVEN COLORS. 


201 


Caballo Pinto!’ called Castro, 
with a laugh. 

“With a bound, with a rush, with a 
swoop like the swoop of the prairie hawk 
down swooping for the quail, the Paint 
Horse was away. One short neigh of fare- 
well he gave to Bonita, then bent to his 
work. The beating of his hoofs was like 
the rataplan of a drum on the mellow 
night. A stream of sparks floated up from 
the stony road. The wind sang in their 
ears. The stars were blurred above them. 
His ears were flat to his skull. The great 
mane floated back over the girl like a cloak. 
The reins were loose and Castro clasped his 
sweetheart with both arms. He drew his 
breath gaspingly. Don Manuel and his 
men saw only an empty road before them. 
Bonita had swerved and dashed into the 
chaparral. ‘He has vanished!’ said the 
soldiers, in wonder. It was so.” 

The mesquite fire had died down. Juan 
Gregorio paused. His tale was ended. No 
need to tell his hearers of Castro’s mar- 


202 


THE PAINT HORSE 


riage, or how Bonita was lound again, or 
how the bandit helped Mexico to win her 
independence, or how the Paint Horse of 
Seven Colors lived for many years. 

‘"Si!” said all of the sheep shearers. 


HOW THE GOOD SAINT CAME TO 
PANCHO. 


Pancho Morales, six years old, black- 
eyed and round-paunched, nicknamed by 
an idolatrous mother, Pancho Bravo Boni- 
to y Chico — Frank Brave Beautiful and 
Little — threw his chubby arms above his 
curly black head early on Christmas morn- 
ing and peered from the pallet in the corner 
toward the fireplace of the dirt-chimney 
on the other side of the room. He ex- 
pected things. He believed in his mother, 
who spanked him one moment and caressed 
him the next, and she had told him of the 
coming of the good saint whom the Eng- 
lish call Santa Claus. 

Pancho lived in a jacal down by the Rio 
Grande. A jacal is a hut built of crooked 
mesquite poles, driven upright into the 
ground, and roofed with ‘‘tules,’’ which are 
water flags, dried and tough. The floor was 

203 


204 HOW THE GOOD SAINT 

of dirt, the door, made of heavy planks, 
hung to rawhide hinges, there was one win- 
dow with a single pane of glass, and no 
blind. One hundred yards away the turbid 
river rolled to the sea. The river was of 
grave interest to Pancho, because he was 
never allowed to go near it alone. It 
brought him many things to play with — 
driftwood of curious form, queer nuts and 
berries, carved bits of pine and all the flot- 
sam of a stream of the wilderness. Some- 
times in flood it swept down acres of vines 
with huge watermelons clinging to them, 
Pancho's father swam in and brought them 
out and piled them on the bank for him to 
dance around. In flood time Pancho was 
specially warned to keep away from, the 
river, which sang all the night with a hol- 
low, rushing sound. It was always in a 
hurry then to get to the sea. 

About the hut in which Pancho lived 
were sand hills, swathed in mesquite and 
chaparral. Giant cacti reared misshapen 
forms around him. The huisache bore 
yellow blossoms faintly sweet and the cat- 


CAME TO PANCHO. 


205 


claw flowered into white after each infre- 
quent rain. Its perfume is the sweetest of 
perfumes. 

Pancho was only six, but he was “brave 
and beautiful,” and he wandered at will 
through the chaparral in all directions, save 
toward the river. He knew the track of 
the leopard cat. He had trapped the blue 
quail that has a crimson topknot. He had 
chased the chaparral cock, which easily out- 
ran him. He knew where the rabbits bur- 
rowed in the sand. In the wooden cage 
which hung over his pallet were two “palo- 
mitas,” little doves no longer than a man^s 
thumb, which cooed just as the American 
dove coos. He knew which of the cacti 
contained water and which of the “pear ap- 
ples” were good to eat. If Pancho had 
been lost in the chaparral, he would not 
have starved or died of thirst, as sometimes 
happens to persons much older than he. 

On this Christmas morning as he stared 
around he saw his mother sitting by the 
fire, with her face in her hands and her long 
black hair hanging to the dirt floor. Pan- 


14 


2o6 how the good saint 

clio thought she was asleep, and tiptoed to 
her. He threw his arms about her neck 
and shouted in her ear. She clasped him 
in her arms, and then he saw that she had 
been crying. She kissed him passionately 
and murmured: ^Tancho chico, Pancho 
bonito.’’ 

Pancho did not ask her why she wept. 
His eyes were rounded in astonishment at 
the many things that he saw, and he knew 
that they were for him. Truly the good 
saint had found his way to that far hut upon 
the Rio Grande. 

To begin with, there was a crimson scarf 
of most beautiful silk, which Pancho was to 
wear about his waist; there was a pair of 
tiny buckskin trousers, with a fringe down 
the outside of the legs; there was a tiny 
sombrero, heavily bound with silver braid; 
there was a pair of shiny boots with red 
tops; there was a black velvet jacket, also 
trimmed with braid; there was a small lar- 
iat, plaited of colt’s hide; there was a little 
silver spur; there was a pocket knife; there 
were sweetmeats of many kinds, chief 


CAME TO PANCHO. 


207 


among them ‘"peloncillo/’ crude brown 
sugar, in a stick as big as Pancho's plump 
leg; dearer than all was a package of Amer- 
ican store candy, striped in red, white and 
blue; there were firecrackers; there was a 
picture of the Virgin and Child, done in 
gaudy red and blue color and rudely 
framed. Pancho did not know it, but all of 
the things were of a non-perishable kind. 
They had been brought a long way into 
that far country. On the other side of the 
fireplace were things for his mother, rich 
stuffs for gowns, combs and brushes, and 
perfumes in cheap, gaudy bottles. It oc- 
curred to Pancho that the good saint had 
forgotten the father, and he had made up 
his mind to share with him, when he saw a 
new Winchester rifle standing in the corner. 
From it depended in a new belt a new re- 
volver. There were some bottles of strong 
liquors also, and packs of playing cards, as 
well as a waterproof coat and a massive, 
gaudily ornamented bridle. Pancho’s fa- 
ther, who was a dark, strong man not more 
than thirty years old, still slept heavily, for 


2o8 how the good saint 

he had worked hard and ridden hard in the 
past night. 

The child danced up and down excitedly 
in his mother’s arms. ‘^Oh, gracias, madre 
mia!” he cried. ‘‘Gracias, padre mio ! Gra- 
cias, buen Dios! Gracias, Virgen Maria.” 

The little doves in the wooden cage 
cooed softly. The mother shuddered, and 
glanced fearingly at the long form on the 
pallet that began to stir and mutter. The 
sun coming up gilded the tops of the mes- 
quite that grew on the summit of the east- 
ward hill. Some ranch chickens scratched 
busily in the sand outside. The clucking 
of the hens came through the window. The 
shrill whistle of the quail sounded from the 
chaparral. From overhead came the 
scream of a questing hawk. A coyote, 
which had yelped about the hut all night, 
slunk away into the cactus. The murmur 
of the river was stilled in the noises of 
Christmas Day. 

Hs * * jk * * * 

Pancho’s mother unbarred the heavy 
door and let in a flood of sunlight. It 


CAME TO PANCHO. 209 

plunged into the dark room and fell upon 
the sleeping form of her husband. He 
stirred and sat up, his black hair falling in- 
to his eyes. He was not fully awake and 
muttered that '‘it weighed much.” He 
had removed only his outer clothing, and 
across the soiled bosom of his shirt was a 
heavy smear of something dark. There 
were splashes of this dark on his sleeves. 
There were particles of it under his finger 
nails. His trousers, which lay on the floor, 
were stained with it. So were the heavy 
riding boots tumbled into a corner. So 
was the saddle which lay upon the floor. 
He saw these things, and shrugged his 
shoulders impatiently. 

“It could not be helped,” he growled, “A 
little sand and water for the leather; for the 
clothes the fire. Pancho, my loved one, 
come to thy father.” 

The child ran to him with an infantile 
cry of delight, and was gathered into his 
strong arms. Its soft cheek lay against the 
dark stain on his bosom. The mother 
looked at them with wide, frightened eyes. 

14 


210 


HOW THE GOOD SAINT 


^^Dost like the pretty things, my little 
one?’' asked the father, cuddling him, “the 
pretty things that the good saint hath 
brought thee?” 

“Ai! Ai!” said Pancho. “The good saint 
that loves thee and me.” 

“That loves thee and me,” repeated the 
father. “How else could the things be 
here, my Panchito?” 

“How else?” said Pancho, returning his 
kiss with childish fervor. 

The wife took him roughly from his fa- 
ther’s arms. 

“Thy shirt is unclean,” she said, briefly. 
“Is this a time for fooling?” 

The man looked down shamefacedly. 
“Thy pardon, cara mia,” he said. “It is so. 
I had forgotten.” 

He rose and threw the shirt and trousers 
and coat into the fire and moodily watched 
them burn. “I have others as good,” he 
said. 

Pancho rushed forward with a long stick 
which his mother used to stir the coals 
with, and tried to drag them from the 


CAME TO PANCHO. 


2II 


flames. 'They are good clothes,” he said, 
stoutly. 

"Nay, nay, little one,” said his father, 
raising him in his arms and kissing him 
again, "let them burn. I have better. They 
were old. It is the Christmas time. Shall 
we not be gay, you in your vaquero's suit 
that the saint brought, and I in my Sab- 
bath dress? It is the Christmas time, my 
brave one.” 

"It is the Christmas time,” repeated Pan- 
cho, glibly. "Let them burn. But it is a 
shame,” he added, "to burn good clothes.” 

Again the mother took him to herself. 
"Thou art strangely forgetful, Ramon,” she 
said; "thou hast not washed. Thy hands 
are stained.” 

The rough rider looked at his darkened 
nails and then at the child. "I was forget- 
ful,” he said, "but it is dry. It will not 
come off on his skin.” 

Outside against the wall of the hut, high 
above the leap of coyote or wolf, hung a 
wild turkey, whose glossy bronzed coat had 
not lost its color. It had been dead three 


y 

/ 


212 HOW THE GOOD SAINT 

days, and was moved from side to side of 
the jacal to keep the sun from shining on it. 
This turkey Pancho’s mother baked with 
cunning Mexican art in a little grave dug in 
the ground. It was stuffed with meal and 
seasoned with red pepper and just a pinch 
of wild sage. She had ''comida,’' too, 
which is bread stewed in rich goat’s milk 
with pepper, and ‘‘cabritas,” or stewed kid’s 
flesh with pepper, and ‘'chili con came,” 
which is beef with pepper, and “huevas con 
savollas,” a mixture of eggs and onions and 
grated cheese and, of course, pepper, and 
“enchiladas,” which are tortillas, with on- 
ions and grated cheese and “chili con 
came” gravy poured over them. She had 
“tamales” made according to a receipt that 
her grandmother had used, and “dukes,” 
which are many kinds of home-made can- 
dies. She had cake, frosted with red sugar 
and thickly strewn with pecans, and a 
strange pudding, boiled in goat’s milk, and 
strong black coffee, made from berries she 
had slowly parched between heated rocks, 
then ground in her “metate,’’ which is a 


CAME TO PANCHO. 213 

large stone with a hollow scooped in the 
center, that has' a pestle for grinder. 

Pancho, in his buckskin trousers and 
black velvet jacket and red-topped boots 
and tiny sombrero, pottered about, throw- 
ing his colt’s hide lariat at the chickens, or 
the pots and pans, or his mother, or his 
laughing father, who had drunk much of 
the strong liquor by this time, though he 
dodged the coils of the lasso with instinct- 
ive skill. 

To Pancho, brave, handsome and little, 
this Christmas, which was marked by the 
first visit of the good saint, was a time to be 
remembered. Chuckles burst out of his 
fat little body all the morning long. He 
gave his father kisses, which he carried to 
his mother and brought back more in their 
stead. He embraced Ramon’s long legs or 
clung to Antonia’s gown until taken up 
and kissed again. He cooed in very joy- 
ousness of heart to the little doves, which 
cooed back again. He told tales of what he 
would do when he mounted his father’s 
horse and drove him with the little silver 


214 HOW THE GOOD SAINT 

Spur. He promised manfully never to go 
near the river. When he became a robber 
chieftain, he would buy wax candles and 
burn them for the good saint who had 
been kind to him. He would do a thous- 
and things, and the recital of each of them 
ended with a fresh embrace. His father 
hummed low minor-chorded Mexican 
songs of love and war, and Pancho^s thin 
little treble joined in. The mother, who 
seemed to have forgotten her sadness of 
the morning, was smilingly at work. She 
was used to her husband coming home with 
discolored garments. She had been mar- 
ried eight years and she could not say that 
he had not been a good husband to her. 
She loved him and she prayed for him with 
passionate fervor night and morning before 
the cheap little shrine which stood in one 
corner of the jacal. 

* * * * * * 
Meanwhile, upon a sand-bar three miles 
down the river, was a sightless Thing, with 
holes where there had been eyes, and a bul- 
let wound in the back. Two yellow- 


CAME TO PANCHO. 


215 


trimmed Mexican vultures, gorged to 
sleepiness, stood near it. A pink flamingo^ 
with dignified stride, marched up and down 
and cocked an inquisitive eye. Little blue 
cranes gathered around it and seemed to 
debate what it did there and how best to 
get it away, since it lay with its legs in the 
river and interfered with the fishing. Doves 
that came down to water and were used to 
perch upon the bar, hurried by with a swift 
shrill tremor of wing. A blue quail buzzed 
from the shore, lit by its head, bounded in- 
to the air with a startled whir and was gone. 
Coyotes from the undergrowth looked at it 
longingly, but the swift water was between, 
and the coyote, which is the tramp of the 
cactus, hates water. Above the Thing 
which was on the sand-bar hovered a cloud 
of huge green flies — ^^screw flies” they are 
called in that country, because they lay an 
egg under the skin, which hatches a worm, 
which bores or screws its way into the flesH 
and brings agony and death. The Thing 
was dressed in the rough strong clothing of 
the wayfarer and over the shoulders was a 


2i6 how the good saint 

crease which showed where the straps of 
the peddler’s pack had sometimes pressed. 
The pockets were turned out. It had come 
down in the night, landing softly without a 
jar, and waited there patiently to fester 
and bleach in the sun, or, when the river 
willed, to resume its journey to the sea. 
The afternoon was growing old and the 
sun had plunged far to the west. The face 
of the Thing was already swollen and pur- 
ple, because the climate of the Rio Grande 
does its work fast. In another day the 
mother that bore it could not tell it for her 
son. 

In the night time a strange shape had 
kept it company for awhile, then had parted 
from it and gone downward. This shape, 
as it floated in the moonlight, had looked 
like a barrel with a couple of projections 
sticking from it. Sometimes it rolled over 
and then it had four giant arms, which were 
held up in appeal to the heavens. It had 
grazed the sand-bar and lingered a moment 
in hesitation, but started again and swirled 
steadily southward. Pieces were bitten 


CAME TO PANCHO. 


217 


from it here and there by huge ravenous 
gars, or undersized crocodiles. Some- 
times it was dragged under, but came to 
the surface again, and the silver water ran 
down its sides. The strange shape, that 
was like and unlike a barrel, had been a 
packhorse in its time, faithful and earnest, 
and it had loved the Thing upon the sand- 
bar, but now its throat was deeply cut and 
it was seaward bound. 

A mile above the sand-bar the trail of two 
horses led down to the river’s edge and 
stopped there. A little blood sprinkled 
the dry grass. In more than one place the 
ground was marked with hoofs. A tempo- 
rary halt had been made. This was plain 
to three men who had found the double 
trail and followed it to its ending. They 
were white men, and they looked curiously 
at the ground. Try as they might, they 
could not find a hoof print which led away 
from the river. One of them was spoken 
to as “Sergeant.” All of them had the 
Winchester under the stirrup leather, the 
six-shooter at hip, and the quiet weather- 


2i8 


HOW THE GOOD SAINT 


beaten face which mark the Texas ranger. 

The Sergeant said: “Somebody’s been 
hurt and stopped here to bleed. Mexicans, 
sure. They might belong on this side and 
might belong on that. If they belong here, 
they went into the water and swam some 
and took the bank lower down. Anyhow, 
the ground’s dry and we couldn’t find the 
trail. If they belong I’otro lado (the other 
side) they are somewhere in Tamaulipas 
and I hope they’ll stay there. Pity they 
aren’t dead.” Then the three men rode 
away. 

A flood came down the river in the dark 
and the Thing on the sand-bar followed af- 
ter the strange shape, which was trying to 
reach the Gulf. 

That night Pancho lay curled on the pal- 
let, with the tiny sombrero, and the velvet 
jacket, and the buckskin trousers, and the 
silver spur, and the colt’s hide lariat piled 
so near that he could touch them if he woke. 
His father leaned over him fondly and tick- 
led him softly with a roughened forefinger. 


CAME TO PANCHO. 219 

The boy opened his black eyes sleepily 
and smiled, 

'‘Hast thou been very happy the day, 
higito mio?’’ 

“Ai! Ai!” said Pancho. “Thanks to the 
good saint/' 


THE END. 



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